How sorrow flows,
as it gently nudges
at the edge of my elbow
again and again.
Until I turn around and
surrender.

How sorrow grows,
from a little moment of
discomfort,
shame or death of a feeling,
which was once dear...

Into a monster
who cannot differentiate
love from hate.

Sorrow flows,
like the monthly massacre
of a woman's
body, week and dreams,
gestating
from a tiny cell.