A word that barely scratches the surface.
A word that explains so little for a feeling that could swallow the world whole.
There isnāt a better word for it. Maybe there are synonyms, maybe acronyms, maybe poetic metaphors,
but none of them are enough.
Because hurt isnāt singular.
Maybe hurt should be plural.
When I say Iām hurt, it feels like a ball of yarn
torn apart by the hands of the unhealed.
Tangled by my own fingers while I try to unravel itā
trying to find the root, the core, the center of what aches.
But as I pull the thread, I realize,
More moments I thought Iād moved past.
And thatās when it starts to make sense.
But alsoā¦ no sense at all.
Because hurt doesnāt always come in the shape of tragedy.
Sometimes, itās quieter than that.
Itās the friend who left without warning.
The unkind word that took root.
The loneliness that crept in while I was busy surviving louder wounds.
We think thereās a tier system for pain,
that certain hurts earn the right to break us,
while others should be dismissed.
But Iām starting to wonderā¦
does pain measure itself before it moves in?
Does it ask permission before tangling itself into us?
Because those little hurts,
the ones we tell ourselves donāt matter,
are the ones that wind themselves the tightest.
Threading through the grief we thought we already survived.
Pulling tighter every time we try to breathe.
And when we finally break,
we donāt shatter all at once.
A single thread at a time.
Because itās not just one knot.
And by the time we notice,
the yarn has wrapped around everything;
our ribs, our lungs, our heartā
until even the softest ache feels impossible to name.
Thatās the thing about hurt.
It doesnāt end when the moment ends.
But it holds a whole spool inside.
Will it ever fully unravel?
snowghoul
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
