“Write hard and clear about what hurts.” -Ernest Hemingway

It hurts that you don’t believe me. It hurts to think that my uncle won’t come to my wedding because he’ll think that its wrong, that its sick. It hurts when someone tells me that if I wanted it easy, I shouldn’t have chosen this for myself. It hurts to realise that, in my lifetime, I won’t see a world in which who we love literally doesn’t matter.

It hurts to know that there are whole files full of poems I’ve never read, and files more still that I never will chance to read. It hurts to comprehend so much and to know so many songs and so many words, but to still be unable to compose something that evokes the endless epochs of what exists only within my mind. It hurts, while I’ve collected so many words and so many hearts, that I still can’t speak to them fully.

It hurts to remember every hundred times you promised me that the life we dreamt together would be real someday. It hurts, turning over in my empty small bed to press my back against cold cotton pillowcases, now that I’ve known what it is to not wake up alone.

It hurts to understand that time is feeble and threads us along only as well as it can manage. It hurts to fixate on these same metaphors, these same characters, these same rhythmic patterns and corposant melodic structures even as the world spins eons more every single second.

It hurts like hell to be betrayed. It hurts to be hurt, and it hurts to forgive almost as much. It hurts to turn the corner onto my home street and fill not with amorous warm images of home, but with the texture of spiked spackle white walls and horrific signs I was too young to see.

It hurts to believe in something greater. It hurts not to.

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