Don’t Treat your Hurt like Home.
{Photo via happinessisblog.com}
My bones are trembling from all this time traveling.
I know they want to grow, but I keep pushing them back, trying to find what I left way back there, way back when. The wind is hitting my face as I race backwards. But I’ve learned to take strides, to capture everything between the breaths.
I’ve learned not to drink anything whole, because that’s how we get hurt.
Yes, I want to tell you about the hurt. And how it won’t always be there.
Your hurt is a tedious old lover, your hurt is a healed scar.
Soon, it’ll be the mark left on your index finder that you’ve had for so long. It’ll be pink, no longer rubbed raw and red. Where it once lay fresh, it’s now bland. It’s a nude hue, one away from skin. There is no pattern, just a smooth curve of bone.
We all have many scars that feel like this. I want to remind you that just like your hurt, these scars were once deep red, pulsating and screaming at you. But now they lay dull, certainly not bright enough to burn. It will feel silly to run your hands over them, expecting to feel something.
Treat your hurt like scars.
Treat them like your dim, incandescent lighting.
Like your trivial, uninspired fighting.
Treat them like your past lover with no color left in his face, only lame, uncertain curvatures disguising themselves as smiles.
Do not treat your hurt like home.
Home is the flecks of amber in your best friend’s eyes. Home is the damp concrete of your porch. Home is found in your sheets, in the morning stumblings, in the simple sunrises that you don’t see, but feel.
Home is the crimson beats of your lovers heart as it pulses through toward your belly because he’s fallen asleep on you and you’re too in love with this feeling to wake him up. Home is found in strangers that smile with their eyes.
Your hurt is clutter, not comfort.
Comfort is a tapered melody of photographs strung up on your bedroom walls, with that syrupy smell of crumpled edges aged by time.
But clutter, clutter is your clothes out of the dryer when they come out too damp because you were too eager to get them out. But you wear them anyway because eh, they’ll do.
Your hurt ages, it dulls. Someday it’ll feel like a fine dagger slicing invisible limbs. You think it should hurt, so you’ll wince, but feel nothing. Eventually the hurt, no matter what kind, will stop stabbing you, stop leaving blood sloshing in your belly.
Your hurt will wash away.
You will feel it, constantly before it does. It’ll try to sink into your skin, but you’ll be able to keep it at surface level. And soon, it’ll bounce off your body like rain drops, more inclined to join the muddy puddles at your feet.
Hurt is the bitter, swelling chill left on the tip of the night. But eventually, even the nighttime fades. Everything in it becomes bone dry and dusty, including your hurt.
*****
{This too, shall pass}
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