Hope for the Morning

Some evil creature laid, or perhaps forcefully smashed, an egg in to my lower back. The pain was debilitating from the very second it pounded snuggly in to in the left-hand side like a meteor, and the immediacy of it had me second guessing if I had always been in pain and simply forgotten? We were suddenly mid-conversation without an approaching figure in the distance or a greeting at the door.

The yolk spilled down in to the depth of my hip to then drizzle drops of acid on to the taut steel cables of my muscles and bands. The erosion cancels any plans of subtle resistance in letting anyone else in on what’s happening: I’m hunched and hobbling like a mad scientist’s assistant when not clenching my jaw and fists. After a day of keeping most of the pain’s layers underground they break the concrete in the night: pretending my legs has been torn apart when it’s really intact but reminding me just how many parts there are to tear in to with pain. It’s the lullaby in to sleep and the trumpets that shake me awake only an hour later in harmony with the sounds of my own muffled and spiteful chorus of pain.

When the night is done I’ll take the ginger steps to settle how upset me leg, hip, and back have become: hopefully loosening everything up enough to allow some space for everything to stretch themselves out and relax. The storm has only just landed and riding it out is all there is to do.

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