Oh, I could tell you all the awful things,
I could tell you in a terse inventory,
titles on a playlist of pain.
But that would be searing and wounding,
rending.
I would rather use all the brushes and paints in my toolkit
to fill in the vast tableaux that make these horrors
(understandable?)
(forgivable?)
bearable.
I'm not sure I deserve the grace provided by a backstory,
but I know I can't bear to confess
without explaining how
my soul can bear the weight of all that has passed.
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