We sit in waiting rooms
In leafy suburbs and council estates and amongst the urban hubbub
Of life continuing without us
Around us
On NHS waiting lists and in clinics
Waiting for a swab and a stick and a booklet with a few telephone numbers
For you to call and fix yourself, if you wish

Sitting
across from our familiar stranger this week because of the new news that is our
history, Herstory
painful reality
Fresh on our twitter feeds
Souls laid out bare for everyone to see
Our hurt. And still you'll never understand what it means.

This week
Thousands of women in their weekly meet
Our stories told and untold, forgotten and remembered,
memories always a feather's distance away. Whispered
And carried through the storm.

But still you won't hear how deep
The trauma sits
But what matters is

We survive
And we are together, now.