Pink Vulnerability
I continue to feel
the searing pain.
ever constant.
so keen.
Not the kind
that heals fast,
open wound that closes.
But, the kind that stays vulnerably
with the passing years.
Three decades
and still counting.
Woe to this pain!
With laden anguish,
The heart's bemoaning.
Thinking it was born
without a name.
Only to find then
at a much later time;
giving in.
Oblivious now.
Unashamed
that my bosom groans,
complains.
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