Trauma
https://poems.culturing.net/2026/11/11/trauma/
They told me affection could kill,
and I believed them, not knowing
this state of affairs to be temporary,
feeling instead the cool hand of solitude
gripping my throat. It was not the worst thing.
At least love could be held in private,
allowed to burn in monastic chambers,
one after the other. But was it enough?
Or would one day the pain find expression
in tears, the wailing and moaning
of one ignored for too long?
And what then? Was there still room
for healing, a place on the earth where broken hearts
can mend? Or do some wounds never heal?