Barren Womb
Bruised, broken, barren,
while you leave my body
bloodless,
I still birth you
from my womb – your home –
and every time
you leave it,
shrinking further
with each passing generation.
The Memory of Violence
How vulnerable you become,
how fragile.
Bouts of anxiety creep in
every day, every night.
Healing becomes a myth,
when the memory of violence,
echoes from
the dark alleys of mind.
You squirm in pain,
uninvited tears
swell up your eyes
in anticipation.
The memory of violence never fades away
it grows profound,
day by day, night by night, year by year.
