The Letter She Will Not Write…

For if she writes from her own truth,

the reader may bleed?

Doubt the authenticity?

Cry, Maybe?

In abject union.

For the one who writes of her reality.

The letter she will not write,

will not be poetic.

Romantic.

Will not be a sonnet.

Can never promise the happy ever after.

She will if she could,

in the letter she will not write.

Tell you,

it was ugly.

It was pain.

It was brutal and brilliant.

The letter she will not write.

Will tell you she fights on.

Determined still to no longer deny who she is.

Battered.

Bruised as she has so long been.

Yet now she does not recognise her.

For she is hopeful.

Joyful.

Free.

Who is this woman she has become?

Why can she not write of her, in all her proud glory?

Why is it she still lingers in the shadows of her nightmares?

Yet…