Fingers do a resolute tap, tap
on leather sofa arm.
Eyes shift upwards as
she enunciates each word
“I should have screamed
more.”

No longer does she live
like furniture
in a summer home,
hidden and covered
except when needed.

Newborn screams pierce
her coverings
and erupt, signaling
an end to her pretense.

Weary of repairing
other’s battered armor,
she hammers out
her own dents.