Wounds

People often feel uneasy
talking about their own wounds.
Admitting you’re hurt can feel like
you’re confessing to being broken.
We try so hard to be cheerful,
healthy, and impressive—
so any mention of pain
feels like it threatens that image.
It’s easier to pretend it’s not there,
even when it is.

But no one is without wounds.
We’re all covered in them.
Layer upon layer,
they harden like stones inside us.
At some point,
we need to sit face-to-face with those stones.
And when we do,
we might be surprised to find
a poem shining like a diamond
hidden deep within.
Even the morning letters I write
are poems of healing
drawn from my own wounds.