Writers 
Why do eyes find the scar upon the skin,
yet overlook the fracture hidden within?
Then what of the pain that leaves no bruise,
unseen because some never know that certain wounds
burrow deeper than the flesh,
where no bandage can reach,
where no remedy can easily soothe what lingers.
Perhaps they have never known such pain, I wonder,
or perhaps they have simply learned to look away.
A wound of the flesh may fade into a scar,
while the heart remembers every cut,
every silence, every disappointment,
every ache that settles quietly beneath a smile.
Has it ever occurred to them, I wonder,
why must every wound be named
before it is noticed,
before it is believed,
before compassion is offered?
I long for the one
who will read the storms behind my eyes without a word,
the one who would ache for me,
the one who would warm their hands at my brightest flames
and tend the embers when they dim,
remaining even when the light grows faint.
Perhaps silence is mistaken for healing,
perhaps the pain exists because it matters to me,
because some sorrows refuse to be forgotten.
I wonder whether indifference is kinder than hope;
then I long for the comfort of indifference,
for the stillness of expecting nothing,
yet somewhere within me, hope remains.
