We are the wounded women.
The damaged.
The broken.
The ones that must push forward and pretend for the sake of others… because we know that they can’t handle our truths.
If only they knew…
How deep our scars run.
How long they have bled.
How many stains we’ve cleaned along the way.
We are the wounded women.
Time passes and all things heal.
Perhaps memories fade – yes, that is true.
But cracks remain as reminders.
Never safe.
Never clear.
Never truly tall enough to stand over it all.
They remind me when things get too quiet.
The whispers.
Yes, I know.
Yes, I remember.
Your grip is still there.
Stifling.
And after all these years, I am still struggling for a release.
I guess that says something about me – the fact that I have the strength to fight.
The fact that I still want to.
Don’t look too closely at my mask. There is ugly beneath it all.
Truth is a powerful thing.
We are the wounded women.
I am a wounded woman.
But my wounds have taught me something about my core.
I am the wind and the storm and the rain.
I am time and yesterday doesn’t matter unless I allow it.
Evil lurks in the shadows, so I stand in the sun.
See me and my scars.
They tell a story that I am not brave enough to remember.
The wounded women are everywhere.
We push this world forward.
We fight for our babies.
We fight for ourselves.
We fight for the little girls we once were.
We protect those versions of ourselves.
We do better for ourselves…and for our children.
Wounded.
Women.
Warriors.
