No one told me that hurt was a disease.
Hurt took root, between my bones, in the
Spaces of my ribs. So whenever I breathe it,
It's so painful. Hurt, hurt became constant.
It was in the back of my mind and under my
skin and poisoning my blood and in my dreams.
The hurt never, went away.
It continued to eat at me and claw at me.
It continued to bury me alive and suffocate
my screams.
The hurt refused to let me know peace.
No one told me hurting would be so
brutal and difficult to recover from.
- perhaps it's because the hurt was self-inflicted
YOU ARE READING
passenger
Poetry(poetry and short story collection) "please come home" / my body and soul long to shatter the dissonance and become , one.
