Wound to Window

I used to press my pain down

like laundry in an overstuffed drawer

shove, shove, close it fast,

Pretend the handle isn’t shaking.

﹁﹂

It worked, kind of.

Until a random Tuesday

When someone asked, “How are you?”

and my throat filled up

like a sink with a clogged drain.

﹁﹂

I didn’t want sympathy.

I wanted air.

I wanted the ache to have somewhere to go

besides deeper.

﹁﹂

So I did a strange thing:

I stopped calling it a wound

like it was only damage,

and started calling it an opening.

﹁﹂

Not pretty.

Not poetic, really.

Just… true.

﹁﹂

I wrote the worst parts down

in messy sentences,

spelled your name wrong on purpose,

let my anger be ugly,

let my sadness sit on the couch

with its shoes on.

﹁﹂

Then I opened the window

literal window

and the cold night rushed in

like a reset button.

﹁﹂

The pain didn’t leave.

But it loosened.

It shifted,

like something trapped

Finally learning there’s a horizon.

﹁﹂

Now when it flares,

I don’t clamp down first.

I crack the window wider

and let the air testify.