They call her strong, stating
that anyone else facing what she did
would have caved. Yet she emerged
with what passes for unscathed.
She was a pillar to others, though
every singular cell strains to
sustain stability. But to the onlooker
all was ideal, only the trained
would note the quivering muscles,
could see the creviced facade,
or identify the ache in the smile.
What was obvious to her wasn’t
clear to others. And because she’s
conquered this positive game, Strength
to her was their latest dismissal name.
But maybe it was she that was blind,
failing to realize that name was
a hard deserved accolade.
Not yet has she come to claim the grays,
the lines or the scars as trophies
and testimonies; they still simply serve
as avenues back to past pain.
It is tragic really, because there is
a truth still to be uncovered hiding
- This is my first in the 30 poems in 30 days that may turn into 62 poems in 63 days.
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