Hardened Places

It starts like an ache behind the ribs,  

a gnawing thought you tried to bury.  

The names of people you'd rather forget  

rattle like loose change in your chest.  

You think forgiveness is a bridge too splintered,  

wood bitten by rain, by years of pain.  

But holding hurt is like cupping fire,  

you blister yourself before you burn them.  

We are all sharp edges in dark rooms,  

fumbling for our own corners of light.  

We bruise each other in the searching,  

pressing hurts we do not always mean.  

To forgive is not to unremember,  

but to unclench, release the jaw's grip.  

It is the hymn we hum for ourselves,  

a song that softens the hardened places.  

And when we whisper "I forgive you,"  

the words melt even the heaviest stones.