What Cannot Break

You see that little girl?

Assume she's getting fucked.

Always assume she's getting fucked,

If for nothing more than there is a hole in her.

Is she supposed to fill it?

No one told her about filling holes,

Only that she has one and there is a right it should be filled.

No one told her, taught her how.

Others will do, and she'll let them,

Still never understanding.

She'll suffer and the doctor will call it woman's pains.

Because if there were understanding to be had at all it would have to be man's pains.

Said jokingly and yet,

Deep and visceral is the wondering.

Because she aches and takes it in stride.

There are chores, and children, and husband,

And a love that should not come last.

Because while woman's pains are harsh,

And yes, her lower back aches in a way he doesn't really know,

His back hurts too.

His back hurts and he takes it in stride.

There is work, and children, and wife,

And a love that should not come last.

You see that little girl?

Assume she's getting fucked.

But.

You see that little boy?

Assume he's getting beat.

Always assume he is getting beat.

Always assume she is getting fucked.

Yes. Sometimes he is fucked and she is beat.

Tables turn. All backs hurt.

The world needs to breathe and give in that we are one in the same,

If only with individual burdens.

The load is still heavy, the aches still real all around.

I cannot help that I ache more for the little girl.

An ache deep not in my bones,

Because bones can break, and set, and mend.

Deep in my womb, the universal ache,

The hole that cannot be held closed.

It stretches, and mends, and keeps it's secrets.

So can it be hurt?

The world would ask.

It does not break.

It must be filled,

A duty only being done.

And though it'll leave no scar,

Though it'll mend,

My womb aches for her.

Is she hurt? Little girl?

I don't know.

I can only assume she's getting fucked.