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Some words you hear,
And others you feel.
Not necessarily because they have meaning
But because they take you back to a memory which you had not expected to revisit
And as the words come your way, each wound is picked or is it pecked with every syllable
While you just sit there in that room trying not to flinch at the pain.
And when all is said, the world moves on as you sit there cleaning open sores only you can see.
Nobody asks why you’re so still
Or why you breathe so deeply
Nobody ever asks why.
How will they ever heel?
Copyright © Francesca Cabral