Take What Hurts

There is a muscle beneath the ribs,  

hidden below sighs and quiet prayers.  

It bends and tears before it softens,  

a pulsing ache in the name of release.  

We are taught to grip so early

small fists circling bigger fingers,  

holding tight to what we call ours,  

mistaking possession for power, for peace.  

But willingness is not a surrendering  

to loss, or a forfeiture of self.  

It is the trust in an invisible thread,  

a hand extended to what feels impossible.  

It is saying, “Here—take what hurts,  

take what I’ve carried too long,  

take the things I've gripped so fiercely  

they have worn me hollow in return."

The shadow of fear may linger still,  

but even there, something blooms,  

resilience sprouting under uncertainty,  

a quiet surrender that sounds like a whisper:  

"Help me trust the letting go."