What can we hold better than our truths?
Healing does not mean that the hurt disappears. It means
that it transforms into a fervor despite the imprint of pain.
It’s more convenient to keep hurting and letting bruises
fall deeper into purples and blues.
There’s comfort in poking at pain to remember it's real,
and letting that beating caress you.
To heal is to cut out the brown spots from tender fruit and
still find feasting inside oneself. A perfect rotting is
something to fear.
If the world were to open like an orange, would the small
pockets inside be as sweet as we imagine? Peel the earth
off itself and tell me how it is.
I’ve never thought to try it for myself.