As I stand on your doorstep, tattered and bruised.

I stand on your door step,
Tattered and bruised.
You get one glimpse
And hold me close.
You shoulder digging into
My collarbone;
So painfully comforting
Of your presence once more.
I won't let go,
I hold on tight.
I sit before you
With tales not scarce.
Words are to be summoned
For a sermon too long.
You wait patiently
As I stare straight ahead.
My eyes water,
But words don't abide.
But I won't let go,
So I hold on tight.
They roll of my tongue
Syllables and sounds.
Incoherent and imprecise
To sum up my wounds.
I narrate to you,
The struggle that begins
Each day as the world shifts
Slightly around.
From a single view,
So safe and sound
But the war I fight
Just doesn't subside.
I don't let go,
And I hold on tight
As I narrate to you,
Stories I found.
The tears come,
Between restless sighs.
You reach over and whisper
'Don't let go,
Hold on tight.'

-Momina.