[Poem] Epoché (Silence Hurts No More)

Slowly the silence ceases to sting. Instead
it is solace, soft and sympathetic, sensitive
to the tender throes of one girl’s battle, balancing act
between measured grace and madness; a sane insanity.
I let the silence wash over me, the distance
feels like the epoché you spoke about but never understood.
(The river did not pass judgement; it suspended it.)
Your greatest weapon has become my coldest comfort.
I have learned, finally.
I nestle the wounds of many years inside of me
and kiss the blade.
“This time,” I whisper, “this time–”
“I am not desperate to end the pain.”



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