If I feel your pain through her.

I don’t.

I feel her pain.

I tell her not to be the victim

In someone’s story about victims.

I tell her we’re survivors

Who make sweet lemonade

From what’s meant to be sour, tart–

We make our hurters think

We planned our hearts hurting–

That’s how happy you will be, my love.

We are a family of bitches.

I mean it in a good way—

Like good witches. Women

Who carry mystery in our bones:

We delight in knowing life is delightfully dark,

And ugly, and exquisite, and essential.

My love, in time you will find love,

But does it matter?

It will come too late to save you

From the present hurt, the sting.

The scarring. It’s fucking beautiful.

You didn’t ask for it.

But it will be beautiful anyway,

How you’ll wear it.

Maybe it will be your own poem,

Someday, when someone else needs a poem

About how to survive being thrown away.

You might learn the words that will heal them.