touching the wounds

the argument we had
wouldn’t resonate so much in me
if it didn’t tune to my forgotten pain
if what you said wasn’t a reflection of it
you put your finger on my wound
and pressed
but the pain was mine
hidden, it survived somehow
and now, with your fingertip on it
it screamed to get out
I let it go
adding rage and tears
I immersed myself in fury
to take some memories out
and then
greeted by the open space
I chose to make it mine


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