At 4 a.m. I lay awake
Writing some of the best poetry of my life
Inside my head
Knowing it may flee by daylight.
Thoughts of my journey to here
To now—
Dark splinters in wood and bone
Digging them out
Tossing them aside
Old pain, old slivers
Buried so deep
From the shattering.
New growth formed over
Must dig them out
Must get it all out
Or else
The pain will never ease.
Years, it took
Working on me
Poking, scraping at scabs
Digging up bones
Others say to leave them be
But I know I cannot
Like the Princess and the Pea
I dig at them until they’re
All gone
All gone.
Now what?
What replaces the pain?
I know why some identify so greatly
With their pain
That it becomes them, and they become it.
Together by osmosis.
And everyone says, “Let it go.”
“Let it be scabbed over.”
“Leave it.”
And then that day
It happened that I had dug
The last splinter.
I slept for 10 hours.
I woke up empty.
What now? I keep asking.
I did the work,
Now what do I do
Who am I if not the pain?
If not the scabs?
Not one to ask for help,
I did.
And they did.
And I am learning to walk again.
Hoping one day to fly.