She laid the claim long ago
and no one said a word.
They simply let her twist in the wind,
her wounds unprotected
festering, dripping away.
Rose had been bleeding ever since.

When others spoke,
they began to believe,
and her words began to ring true.
We harkened back, and listened
and someone got someone thought to throw some cloth Rose’s way.
Her wounds have healed a little in that time,
the blood collecting slightly,
scabbing over a bit.

Still, she feels pain when the subject comes around,
when her time in the desert is discussed.
She prefers to focus on the resolution
than her isolation.
Rose doesn’t like to think of all the pricks made against her.
She chooses to move on.