Photo by Jason Blackeye on Unsplash
sometimes, you have to let the pain
spill out of you in waves,
pour out of you like rain before
you can feel the sun’s warmth
on your face again.
sometimes, you have to let it out
with an earth-quaking, ground-shaking
visceral scream, a blood-curdling screech
before you can remember how
to breathe again.
sometimes, you have to let
the pressure build until it bursts;
feel the pain until it no longer hurts.
let it ache until it burns itself away
and the infection dissipates.
sometimes, you have to choose
which parts of you can stay and
which ones need to be cut away.
which are weeds that need to be pruned so that
flowers can bloom unhindered, unrestrained.
because only when
your wounds are mended
will the ground have enough room
to nourish something beautiful;
to grow something new.
You can check out "When Wounds Are Mended" and more poems in my chapbook BONE WEAVING, available now on Amazon. Order the paperback here.
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