The Woman at the Well….
I am a woman, of no distinction, of little importance.
I am a woman of no reputation save that which is bad.
You whisper as I pass by and cast judgmental glances; though you don’t really take the time
to look at me or even get to know me.
For, to be known is to be loved and to be loved is to be known.
Otherwise, what’s the point in even doing either one of them in the first place?
I want to be known.
I want someone to look at my face and not just see
two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and two ears.
But to see all that I am and could be
all my hopes, loves, and fears.
That’s too much to hope for, to wish for, or pray for, so I don’t.
Not anymore, now I keep to myself.
And by that I mean the pain that keeps me in my own private jail;
the pain that’s brought me here at midday to this well.
To ask for a drink is no big request.
But to ask it of me?
A woman unclean, ashamed, used and abused,
an outcast, a failure, a disappointment, a sinner.
No drink passing from these hands to your lips could ever be refreshing,
only condemning, as I’m sure you condemn me now but…
You don’t.
