When I was a child,
I fell and scraped my knees,
blood on my knees as I cried
for my own mother. It hurt.
Like when someone sucker
punches you in the chest,
it feels sour, hurts but no
one told me that there was worse.
Mental pain, as if there was
a sharp wringing in my chest,
that made it into knots, impossible
to untie the rope, I used to cry out.
Feeling the moment, of despair,
I was no longer the person, I was.
A child who was strong, tomboy,
rough at the edges but still her.
So when I was a child, scraped knees were the norm,
just like how broken hearts are the norm for me