It’s back, that distantly familiar swell under my ribs,
a bitter sensation, like crying which is desperate to escape.
Is it my trapped tears, all alone inside my chest?
Or the hollow itself that they inhabit, which hurts?
The aching makes me inhale, throbbing intensifies.
Perhaps because my sorrow is sealed in, watertight,
ironic really, for tears – they’re pure saltwater, after all.
Maybe it’s the seal that’s painful; pressured, dying to burst?
Or, my relentless quest for self-acceptance, burrowed,
somewhere within me, creating this hurting?
Can nothing fill this space to kill the pain?
Unwept sadness, a murky, stagnant pond.
It’s there, sometimes, when I draw breath,
threatening to flood me with torrents of sobs out of the blueness.
Soothing resides deep inside my being, which I simply cannot reach.
I continue feigning strength, and resilience,
as the books dictate I must.
“Fuck it,” I say. “Who cares?
Who gives a fuck? I don’t.”
But I do, actually, you know?
So this pain beneath my heart,
this un-cried puddle, remains.
Lying there.
For now.
Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash
