To think about pain is irrelevant to the process.
One shoulders through it, strong-arms their way
around it; what matters is that you take it
into your own two hands. Or one hand,
if you have only one. Those missing a limb
do report the phantom pain, the twinge
in a finger not there, the ache of a writing hand
confiscated by the cruel world. Nobody cares
about the hurt that’s there to stay, because scars
are a fact. As thick and solid as the white line
that divides countries: The District of
What Had Happened right next to The Land
of What Will Make It Better. Which is populated
by kisses, I think, and time alone. And poems,
whether read or written, with a hand
long gone, always and forever twitching
under an imaginary weight.

Tagged ,

One thought on “WWDNTFWMHBLVMS:

  1. Copying this down for me to read again whenever I want. 🙂

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