Sometimes the most subtle cry for help
is a direct cry for help.
It’s as if we’ve erected blinders
against the words themselves:
“I need help.”
As if the truth they contain
and the pain it takes to utter them
are more than we want to bear witness to.
As if hearing them spoken so directly
renders us helpless ourselves,
and afraid.
As if we have nothing to give
to the one courageous enough to ask.
As if we could make that choice for them
by pretending we don’t hear.
The wolf is real.
I would not be crying otherwise.
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