female health

B(e)aring the Hurt

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I let them be, I let them fester, I let you rot deep inside,
Gave no words that would give you comfort, a shoulder to meander by.
Though you confessed that it is over, that you have really tried,
You already knew that it was all futile. You remain with a sigh.

When he made you lose the child that you carried
And walked away like a bear to a waterhole
— Since you were already a mother and a fool, married —
I made no attempts those wounds to console.

Now, you claim that it is all over, that I’m a vicious enough brute
That doesn’t pay any comfort, attention, when needed the most.
Well, what words can I administer? In what way could one sooth
One who scampers through the breeze to hug some ghost?