"Hear me!" she rages, at a turn between turbulence and torpor.
"See me!" she pleads, surging betwixt sullen and sanguine.
Waxing from helpless to hopeful, waning from intention to inaction
She is weary.
Weary like the warrior who wrestles with war
Long years after the shooting was stopped.
Weary like the woman who flinches at the flesh
Of her lover who's touch reminds of the rape.
"It was." claims the mind, the friends, the wishers of well.
"It is." says the wound, the Id, the secret scar.
"And always shall be." Quotes the unquiet ghost.
Pronouncing his permanence, defining her dearth.
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