I have never developed the ability to quantify pain. I get lost in a maze of perspective where subjectivity battles with analysis and words fail me.
I have never been able to choose a number from one to ten to describe what this is because a lower number is only wishful thinking and a higher one is a truth I feel like I have no right to lay claim to because it could be worse.
I have never been able to accurately state how much it hurts, but sometimes I find words for how it hurts and the violence in those sentences creeps like a shadow around thrumming circuits of crackling nerves.
Like someone ripped my spine out and used it to break my legs.
Like my bones are trying to climb through my skin.
Like my muscles are pulling my skeleton apart.
Like every cell in my body is screaming.
I have long since travelled through the stages of grief for what might have been. Acceptance is a room where I have painted the walls with scrolling cursive, so it goes and it is what it is.
This does not define me but it wraps around me and sometimes it covers my eyes but it won’t let me sleep.