there will come a day

when these hurts we nurse the falls we take will seem small potato. Given a week only an urgent poke to the bruise remaining will remind us of the moaning and bitching we so adeptly delivered. Given a month the miracle of the body will have erased all signs of disruption and we'll deny ever having bitched and moaned at all.

when these hurts we nurse the broken heart will seem just cracked or barely chipped. Rip and tear those letters pictures up and apart. Let those burnt cds smolder in the trash heap, on the way to the garbage bin, en route to the disposal truck, to whichever local or faraway dump it will lay rotting away with the brown and graying dreams of other happily ever afters. You might never forget the face the voice the wisp of hair that forever fell across her cheek, though she always brushed it aside it always stubbornly found its way back. The sudden abrupt earth-shattering breakup or the gradual drift apart may remain etched forever, sewn by the two of you on the heart that used to pause and skip beats when you were together. But there will be another. Long after we've exhausted all the oil wells, lopped off the all the heads of trees, sootened all the blue skies on earth, cupid will float on, shooting hearts and breaking minds. There will be another.

when these hurts we nurse the slights that weigh us will seem light as a bulb. he teased you she accused you they egged you on. children can be the cruellest little cretins but the snakes they wriggle your way comes from brutal honesty. we have a world of backhanded compliments and beneath-the-table kicks, under-the-belt jabs towards which to look forward. a constellation actually, where people are planets and everyone thinks it's he she it that the sun revolves around. where we have little grovellers, moons reflecting our self-perceived brightness, proffering themselves for us to conquer and declare ours. it's a complicated world where sometimes you don't realize what's supposed to hurt and what's supposed comfort until it's too late and we're in a two-faced schizo world of paranoia.

for those days of being called booger brains we long and mourn.