by yellowcloverflowers


She does not teach me
how to smile.
Not benign
not benevolent.
She was born in anger.
Her being is made up of malice.
Her existence is interlaced with regret.
She is vicious,
she is fear,
she is loathing,
and she is the unjust.
She can teach me to turn a scream
into a thundering roar;
but if I must cry,
so be it.
She does not console or comfort.
Her gift is patience.
Her stance is as exemplar.
She is the strength I wish I had,
and she openly shares with me
what I can bear to take.
But she is not kind, nor gracious.
She is wicked, sharp, searing,
soaring, sweating, scarring, divinity.
She is divinity.