Poem: She Does Not Like That I Am Still Upset

She Does Not Like That I Am Still Upset

I wish it were so simple
as saying I am done:
this is not a stone,
is not a cold, flat hardness
clutched too tight
in my palm.  

This is glass beneath skin,
is a still wounding wound.
It has not begun to heal,
instead, festers, will rot.
I want to heal, I want us
to heal, but it cannot change
just because you are hurting.

You tell me you feel sick,
that my pain is too much,
is wounding you,
as if I am choosing this,
as if it is not what was done,
but you do not want to feel that,
do not want to admit the pain
I feel, do not want to admit
your part in its infliction.

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