When emotions are your language
it is hard to concentrate
on the process, for the mud is stained
with blood and pain.
I couldn’t stop myself from crying
when others would ask if I was okay.
Hard to translate words I write and read.
When blood in the mud would grab my attention
thinking of the “what ifs” and “how could he’s”
that shattered my walls.
I was left alone.
No friends to hold
me when I cried;
to try to rebuild
the walls of my heart
that he consumed.
I ate to fill the cracks
that my tears couldn’t caulk
in order to do the work I needed to.
But the cracks in the walls around my heart
were always in the back of my mind.
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