The sadness has turned into a soft spot,
more tender bruise than beating.
My heart is larger, porous,
more seeping in and out.
My eyes are darker, my hair more gray.
My skin a little thicker, a little thinner,
it all depends on the day.
I have known the kind of pain
that can recognize all pain.
(And this is a gift).
I can sit in a cold dark well,
and not wither, not wrinkle.
I can play with the water,
and somehow cleanse the fear.
I am smarter. I am smaller.
I walk lightly on a thin mountain path.
I am learning to release questions,
as the trees finally know to drop brown leaves.
I have traveled long distances in tight spaces,
and arrived here, where I was,
on the night it happened,
but tonight, I am living.
I am living. I am living.
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