i am a woman

without regret,

i never lived enough

to incur any.

so says the mean one

in my head.

the nice one would remind me

of the childhood

that left me bound

in uneasy chains

and a fear of doing to someone else

what was done to me,

and i suppose the truth

is somewhere in there,

in the muddle.

they say muddle can only happen

in the brain,

middle happens there too,

both middle and muddle

lying side by side

like two angry lovers.

when Jesus walks through,

back and forth with His own strange

healing,

i have hope,

i find rest

from their bitter conversation.

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