Torrent

Against the torrent, against the storm,
There she stands unaided.
Wounded, aching, bleeding.
She’d rather fight than find solace,
Why does she torture herself?
Her flesh against the gale.
Rubbing her raw to the bone.
Stripping away her essence.
Countless men offer her relief.
And she pushes them away.
More fearful of her suitors,
Than she is the tempest.
She must be confused,
Or tired of being used.
For she finds her comfort in the pain.