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This split is no longer painful—
Not the persistent radiation of a fracture,
Nor the dull debilitation of a headache.
It is dormant, perhaps like the fibromyalgia I feared
When my muscles and bones ached in the throes of it.
The pain surfaces in heaves,
Poises me to write on a train where I can see
rainwater out the window and feel it on my face,
filling a lake inside me.
Sometimes the split closes and leaves behind
adventure and acceptance.
Sometimes it is ripe and has me clutching
myself, grasping my shoulders
and pretending he is giving me a hug.
But now, even as I get stronger,
Trying to prevent the shatter,
Trying to move my lead-filled legs,
The pain erupts.
And in those moments, I am reminded
That I am nothing more than
A healing wound,
Scabbed over my own skin.