this was

don’t say this was nothing
or that it didn’t hurt

I could produce proof enough of a broken heart
to satisfy even you

that this was love

 – k. wilson

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How to be a Woman

In honour of International Women’s Day, a re-post of a poem I wrote a while ago.  Here’s to every strong, independent, talented, compassionate woman I’ve ever had the fortune to know.  Especially my daughter, who continues to teach me how to be a woman.

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That kind of love

Mine isn’t the type that takes you under.  This pain is not the sort that’ll eat you alive – the all-consuming, coeur fou.

It’s not that kind of pain, because it wasn’t that kind of love.

No, mine is constant; the sort of pain that sits behind your ribs. Chronic. It waits, patiently, for a moment to catch you unaware; to remind you it never left. It has a dullness;  a darkness, in its ache. Persistent. Unremitting. In the background and in between every second, making itself known. Just enough, that I am still on my feet. Just enough, that I never forget it’s there. It churns, perpetually, away in the pit of my gut, and every now and again it crawls up into my throat and tries to choke me.

I wish it would –

Take me or leave me.
But it never does. It never will.

It’s not that kind of pain.
 It wasn’t that kind of love.

 – Kellie Wilson