Breadcrumbs for another

how many times can someone look into their own trauma with hopes of boarding up broken windows? At what point does someone have to accept that they will forever live with the silvers in their hands?

The hurt like passing road lines, with small gaps of reprieve between them- you scuttle on. On©e thought: this was the burden of life.
Somewhere, a sunflower stretched its neck, thirsty, the day that you were born. Blind with instinct a round bulbous head looked up and looked west. It sought warmth which nourished and its yellow fingers danced greedily at the plate set in front of it.

Somewhere else, One woman (women) winced and whined. Tried not to scream. Screamed. You had decided today was your day and no one was to deny you. what courage(!)? what hope(!)? both had their own flavor to season those ideas with.

and with (de)termination you tore open a canal and dammed up the river of tears. Your small bones, millions of pulled out silvers; healing and healing.