If I could set a price for the pain that fills me, what would it be?
This pain is more of an acquired taste than a horrendous compulsion.
Or have I given it the liberty to become a part of my being? Like the skin that stretches over muscles and bones, this pain extends from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.
I never welcomed it. It never sought permission. Yet we live together in silence and a muddled understanding.
It’s like that resentful lover who promised nothing but took away everything. The hope, the joy, the promises of a better tomorrow. There is an unstated pact that is honored and neither I nor my pain know how to release each other.
Has it been too long now?
My pain has grown flowers and their scent permeates through the essence of my existence. Never mind the thorns, they keep me alive and kicking, pricking the patches of softness that somehow escaped the grimness.
I carry my home with me wherever I go. A tortoise would not call me its own, but I don’t know if I am meant to settle down and belong.
My pain can be dull, it can be brave, it could even prove a point to those who complain and say they suffer. It gave me a treasure not many would seek. This feeling that wraps me in layers of gray and squeezes my heart and brain.
I am so used to it. What would I do without it?
I’m not sure I could bear to be empty and naked.
Priceless! That’s the golden standard it maintains. Nothing comparable to it. Do you wish to share my pain?
I wouldn’t disclose it. You wouldn’t appreciate its rugged exterior and pungent stink.
It’s nestled deep inside me. Till the very end.
Who really knows…?
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