There’s always this pain—
it creeps up on you like a cricket in the corner,
still as death, then—snap—
it leaps,
takes your breath with it,
and you’re left clutching at air.
They say pain is good,
like a teacher with no lesson plan,
just the crack of a ruler
and the burn of an unspoken truth.
it tells you a story,
maybe one you don’t want to hear.
The kind of story
that crawls out of a childhood closet,
where you hid,
small and quiet,
while the world outside was breaking
like plates hitting the kitchen wall.
Is it the finger of God,
sharp and insistent,
poking you in the ribs?
“Wake up,” it says.
“Look at the sun,
the stars,
the green veins on the leaves,
the silver scars on your own hands.”
Is it love?
or just another cruel riddle
etched in the margins of existence?
Tell that pain to sit,
command it like a mutt
you’ve half-trained but can’t quite tame.
pet its scruffy head—
it’s yours, after all,
this stubborn beast
that drags you into the night
to do its business
while the world watches,
uncaring.
And when it’s done—
when it’s emptied itself
onto the dark,
you’ll walk home again.
not whole,
but lighter.
the cricket silent.
the closet open.
the stars waiting.