Pain is my language

There’s not enough pain
In me
So I add some more:
A little bit of hurt
Some insecurities
A glass full of abandonment
And heartbreaks to taste.
There you go,
My perfect recipe for hurt.

My body is an overflowing paintbucket
The paint isn’t made up of pigments and resin
It’s overflowing with grief
And it’s color
Somehow looks like my blood.
Now, I don’t bleed
My body does.

{What do you call a person who
Bleeds grief to death?}

When I was a kid
My parents taught me to eat
With my mouth closed,
I do that now every minute,
Chew grief and abandonment
With my mouth closed
And eyes wide open.

My therapist says
That whenever I talk about pain
I use metaphors
It smells like my old house
It tastes like a bitter summer morning
It sounds like a curfew siren.
She says I shouldn’t do this,
Maybe I shouldn’t
But what about that Rose I burnt
That smelled like happiness?

You see
I cannot differentiate between
Two kinds of pain
Like blood
The biconcave RBC
The amoeboid WBC
Pain isn’t tangible enough
It just exists
With or without a reason
And breathes in the air
Meant for me.
And I can’t abandon it
Because then I’d have to find a home
For myself.

My poems are curves
Formed out of permanent holes
In my skin
And they shout the same thing
In ever line.
H. E. L. P.
But these letters
Shift farther
And farther
And farther
Until they’re not decipherable
Even by me.

It’s okay if you don’t understand this
Because sometimes
Even I don’t.

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