the ache

The splinter sat quietly

Needling everso

Ignored. Maintained.

And then some nights, over too

Many wines.

You would suddenly feel it’s sharper edges,

Realise you’d been in pain.

All this time. Suffering

Is a state of normalised being

For you. Swallowed and allowed

Because it wasn’t so bad, afterall

Others had it worse.

There are worse things.

You were pretty lucky.

You had no right to

Your own suffering.

The couch that midset makes,

Comforting the splinter

It slides in all the easier

Suffering over suffering.

Holding onto it like a

Badge Of Honour.

Throwing it at unsuspecting love interests,

With vitriol and abandon,

When they stood absent mindedly in the way.

How dare they.

How dare you.

You see,

Suffering is a strange beast.

A dull ache

A sharp penetrating pain,

It’s all relative.

It must be felt.

It demands feeling.

We look away, afraid,


Rotting in our guts.

Trying to push away our humanness.

Trying to strip it from ourselves like

Too tight pants

An oil slick on water,

It lies there, drifting with our currents,

Part of what we are.

Holding us hostage,

Defining how we are,

And making us hide

Our splinters from splinters

We hid long ago.

Pain creates pain creates pain.

You are not the ache in your bones,

You are not the pain in your heart,

The feeling of not quite

The feeling of if only

the feeling of unloveability.

You are the vessel through which it is experienced.

You are the power.

It is the light bulb

The refrigerator

Reinterpretions on the electricity of human possibility.

You are not your pain.

It is you.


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