Familiar Ache
I keep planting gardens in my wounds,
wondering why everything tastes like rust.
Maybe I don’t want to heal—
maybe I just want prettier scars.
Some nights, I mistake my reflection
for something I’m supposed to save.
It’s not love.
It’s recognition.
I keep circling the fire
because I built it.
I don’t miss the pain—
I miss having something to blame.
I never wanted happiness.
I wanted familiar.
And familiar feels like bleeding
in places no one looks.
Healing scares me.
Who am I without the ache?
So I named my bruises
just to feel less alone
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