It Goes On…

Keep crying over spilled milk,
my mother would scold.
I, too naïve,
would lie with my bruise,
until blue turned grey turned black.
What was the reason to be
a bride?
Or work in that store?
Why become anything
when the world still hurts
and the days still end?
I, too stubborn,
would lie with my own dissatisfaction.
Keep crying over those who
rode away from your life
only leaving a vanishing horse.
My mother would say.
I, too lonely,
stayed. Lying alone.

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