The pain that comes

Doesn’t wait for flowery words

Doesn’t fling itself like Icarus

Doesn’t dash itself like china

Against the jagged rocks of the heart

But sings more subtly

Like a paper cut

(along the line of the thumb and

forefinger, where it really hurts)

the pain that comes

doesn’t listen to Radiohead

doesn’t croon the mournful words

doesn’t sob against its pillow

because this song is all about me

it leaps more quietly

like a muscle cramp

(the kind in the arch of the

foot, which is sore for hours)

the pain that comes

doesn’t take itself seriously

doesn’t wait in line at hospitals

doesn’t seek professional help

from those for whom pain is a living

it opens silently

like a paper cut

(and who ever died the death

of a thousand paper cuts anyway?)