Hurting
A tender ache
hermits my soul—
so far from what I thought
the world would be
when I was
a wide-eyed girl of three.
Now, forty-four,
reality seeps in.
The dream I conjured
was far kinder
than the life
I’m now gowned in.
My body—
a sponge of pain—
soaked in old trauma,
dripping regret,
sinking in secret.
Sit beside me
and tell me it’s true—
that dreams born
will still unfold,
that love is real,
that kindness lingers.
So tell me—
somewhere beneath the grip,
does a softer haven hold?
Does the child I once was
still have a place
to rest her head—
to lay down all she’s carried,
and be held
by the world
in its cradled hands?
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