Unwounded
It might be
a stiletto of words
thrust directly
into your heart
It might be
the casual indifference
of someone
who professed to love you
It might be
promises
spoken,
then broken
It might be
the gap between
what you do for love
and for money
It might be
loss after loss
of whatever or whomever
you held dear
Whatever
has filled you
with that hard, sharp, dull
blade of despair
Whatever heavy
weights your shoulders
and crowds
your mind
Whatever has happened,
it isn’t you,
it isn’t the heart
you were born with
It isn’t the you
that delights
in sunsets
and mud puddles
It isn’t the you
that creates
as exuberantly
as any child
If you reach inside
deep, deeper still,
there you are,
yourself, unwounded