Where Does It Hurt?

Where does it hurt?

You can't see it in my eyes

the pain runs deeper than that

it is not on my skin

It was once deeper

Its history etched deep into my bones

the valleys cut deep with a blade

The ravines of the loneliness

slowly carved out

while I was

weaving through piles of

my mother's mental illness.

Every missed meal

filled my belly with sour soup

stewed in uncertainty and

unwavering poverty

riddled my shriveled stomach with

ulcers formed in the knowledge

I cannot be like other children.

I cannot invite friends over

and let them see these mountains of

despair that are slowly

being worn down into me

or talk about the fleas that suck my blood

away and cover me in polka dots of

shame and anguish.

I cannot accept generosity

The guilt will weave itself

into my lungs

suffocating me because

I cannot return the favor.

I have nothing to give.

The growing pains come in pairs

My growth stunted by the

layers of wounds and half healed

scabs piled atop my childhood

But there is no pain there anymore

The scar tissue is thick and

knotted like well worn sailor's knots and

the roots of ancient trees.

Each cut left the blade a little duller,

my skin a little thicker,

the sting less noticeable.

Where does it hurt?

It hurts no more in my body

or in the daily aches of my life

I have no hurt left for myself

my form is covered in armor plating

layered thick on itself

an onion made of steel

There hurt is not

deep down in the tender places

that barely remain either.

Only the most treasured

parts of me live there

cocooned in the many folds

of self-made protection.

No, these soft fetal centers harbor the

good memories I made while

building my armor

The star-filled nights I shared

beneath the blue-black sky

looking up out of the darkness

and back into the darkness

that seemed somehow less dark

and the feeling of wonder

to think how big everything is

and how small

my problems really are.

The warm rumble of a

delicate kitten

nestled in the crook of my neck

as we sleep carefully swathed

in the fleeting comfort

of shared warmth on a

cold night.

The hope I buried deep while

I worked hard to meet

expectations give to me

that I adopted for myself

and used them to slowly climb out

of the pit many find

inescapable

The taste of food

I made and bought

and earned myself

under the hot summer sun.

The humbling of rough hands

and happy heart for even just a moment.

These are set way deep down

in my heartwood.

There is no hurt here either

All the pain that's left is on the outside

The hurt I feel for you

still in denial and

making poor decisions

Each olive branch hacked down

with a willful machete

the denial, the continued destruction

until there were no more

branches left to extend,

only healed knots on a sturdy trunk.

It hurts on the outer most parts

When I look at you

living in squalor and drowning in

your self-made cage.

The cage I escaped

I hide my pain in my smile.

Hoping maybe that you will see it

and acknowledge it

But you have long ago

gouged out your eyes

so you cannot see my smile

only caress the shape of my lips.

And that is where it hurts the most.

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