It doesn’t hurt it is
abstract.
The pain
is toothaches, but
displaced.
A refugee. There is
a word.
It’s like a hammer
and a nail, how everything
becomes your
pain. It sleeps and wakes.
It wakes you up. It goes all
egg-shaped, tastes
of blood. You
picture pain
in little threads, tender
as clams. Papier maché. You see
the torn part. No
one knows that it is there. It hates
this too.