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.”