She wanted to say, "Here World, I’ve wrested my heart out!

Rape and crush it, I beg. Grind, twist, bruise to bleeding. Lend what force of pain you can.
I want this gift of feel.
Tear at complacency and make me throb intimately with compassion.
Maybe then, the jaded heart will soften to a heart of flesh."

But she gave it without speaking,
And the world raped.

I need nail-driven palms and a pierced side before I can understand why. . .

Just Why.

She wanted to say, "Here World, Make me cry till weeping shuts up!
I need to know beyond caring, to know how to care enough. . .
Maybe then, tears will taste of one bitterness beneath heaven, and be lashed away tenderly."

But she said it while weeping,
And the world laughed and lashed
bittterly, under heaven.

She wanted to say, "World, Wrench my blindness, and scar me with vision!

I want hurt to smoulder and writhe with; dark and deep, intense, intentional cholar.
You have had enough, but not with the potency I want it in; not yet enough to end what you’ve began.

Be this knowing. Be this moving!
Maybe then, ackward hands will have the touch to soothe.
Maybe then, merciless tongues will speak kindness.
Maybe then, our wounds will heal."

But she explained with meaning,
And the world hated—
intensely, without Intent.

She wanted to say, "Just Enough, my World. We must start somewhere. Give me just enough to care!"

Then she said it. . .

she said it all–utterly terrified yet fiercely happy–feeling free and brave–and hopeful.

And the world gave; But gave, and gave and gave.

And nothing was started, but softly, one ended,
and nobody cared.