You know women confide into me
And onto me and underneath me.
They share their stories until my heart cracks
To let them in.
But they don’t need my pity
Nor am I offering it.
They need someone to house their pain
For a little while because
This world gets so so
It’s a hair thin line from unbearable.
Made a little easier
By knowing someone is there listening.
But later that day I cry into the carpet.
I want to tell them that
I didn’t ask for this.
But wasn’t I the one telling them
That I’m here for them.
Whatever they need.
Whatever is a lot.
But I sit here bent over on my knees
And inhale the dust from this carpet
That needs to be vacuumed.
It has housed so many tragedies
And welcomed so many knees.
Without meaning to,
I contribute to it.
My dear dead skin cells
Falling as I rock back and forth.
I cry almost as if my tears can sterilize
The past and the pain.
But there is no escape for the grief
And suffering that women endure.
So we stay silent in barren bedrooms
And barren wombs.
And I try to be a shoulder to cry on.