Why do women act
as if pain belongs only to them?
As if heartbreak is their private wound,
their exclusive crown of thorns?
History is heavy with men’s bones,
men who howled when love was torn from them,
men who carried silence like a coffin,
men who shattered and no one wrote their names.
Love is no saint
it is a blind sword swinging wild,
splitting hearts without mercy,
and it does not stop to ask
if the blood is woman’s or man’s.
Pain has no gender.
Loss knows no favourite.
And love betrays us all.