The wound is older than all of us.
No one remembers
where it began.
A room.
A hand.
A silence.
Someone learned
that love was dangerous.
Someone learned
not to cry.
Someone learned
to disappear
while still standing there.
Then they grew up.
The wound grew with them.
It learned new names.
Changed houses.
Crossed oceans.
Sat down at different tables.
It entered marriages.
It slept beside people
who did not know
it was there.
It had children.
The wound learned
their names.
It moved through generations
without a suitcase,
carried in the body,
in the raised voice,
the closed door,
the withheld touch,
in everything
that should have been said
and wasn't.
No one meant
to inherit it.
No one meant
to give it away.
Still,
there it was.
Older than memory.
Older than blame.
Passed from wounded hands
into wounded hands.
Until someone
finally looked down
and saw
what they were carrying.
Not evil.
Not destiny.
A wound.
And put it down.
Not because it did not matter.
Because it did.
Not because anyone
was innocent.
Because everyone
had been a child once.
The wound is older
than all of us.
But it does not have
to outlive us.
