I Am Not the Wound

After Jaiya John

The wound began as she did, growing in the womb of a mother who would devalue her, from the start. It is the first pain she knows; pain without a name or comprehensible source but she begins to recognize it, as herself. 

I am not the wound but I remind her of it, with each false perception, attempted boundary, divergent path. The wound expands, welcomes the new, old pain, folds it in with the existing ache that is pulsing, again. 

I am not the wound but she mistakes me for it, hurls it at me in an attempt to free herself or make me feel it, too. The wound is greedy. It lies to her, tells her that everything belongs to it. This is how it stays alive, exerts control. Remains. In. Power.