Sensitivities unfold painfully slow,
Flaking away to reveal the truth below;
An ugly length of time we managed to hide,
Our knowledge, acceptance of the great divide.
To voice the rift is to admit the guilt,
'So you're the one who broke what was built?'
Instead we sit and stare and pace,
In silent agreement of what we won't face.
Until once again, the numbness returned,
Wrapped even tighter over what once burned.
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