The Victor Weeps

There is an echo resounding
Somewhere in the back of my skull
Twisting its way into an epiphany
Sharp as a frozen arrow of thought
A memory you gave me without intent
In the burgeoning of my young reason.

There is a dull edge on my knife
I can't cut your words away forever
Instead have distilled them into
A bitter pool in a chamber of my heart
Stagnating, putrefying, acid that eats away
At my resistance when I don't pay it mind.

I pay it mind most of the time
Most of the time you are a memory
Nothing more, or less , not a part of who I am
Yet still sometimes I have a chink in my armor
And let you back into my thoughts
To wreak havoc and toy with my self-assurance.

I am the victor, but I still bear a wound
That chooses when and where to weep
Gangrenous in the anguish of its sweeping tide
Pouring itself into my being, completely
Inundating the me I thought I am now
Drowning out her little voice.

Can you hear her in the night?
The little girl whose tears formed
A woman who cries with a different voice
The little worthless crumb of a soul
Who dared to seek your kindness and love
And emerges when the woman least expects her?