Pain is nothing but a series of ever-growing rooms. We all start off in a small room, sometimes a broom closet or maybe even the crawl space. It’s in room one where we learn about scraped knees, broken bones, bruises, and illness. Once we've learned about the beginning of pain we move forward into the next room.
It’s a lot like the last room, only bigger and harsher. Again the process is repeated but with heartbreak, betrayal, depression, self-harm, and anxiety as the key wounds of room two.
Once those have been conquered room three becomes available. Theft, ****, attempted suicide, and addiction reside in its musty corners. And again we familiarize and learn about these mounting pains broadening our empathy.
Of course not everyone follows the same linear path. People end up jumping from room one to room three before even setting foot in room two. Others might find themselves having to double back to the same room over and over again.  
The furthest I've ventured is room three. Every day I find myself pacing within its four walls trying to make sense of my hurt so I can move onward to room four. I’m not even sure I want to though. One room leads to another larger room. The only difference is the severity of the pain.

Being an adult means lying in the sun
until you're hot enough to take a dip.

It means skimming the water
with fine-mesh nets
to collect the floating dead bugs.

Being an adult means thinking about cancer,
and worrying over every sunburn-forged mole.

It means that the paranoia
we all like to call love
haunts your thoughts accordingly.

Being an adult means your two primary concerns on a summer day
are children could potentially drown and consistent doses of SPF30.

It means that you forsake
your own thoughts
for the sake of sparing theirs.

often times i've tried
to make cigarette and regret rhyme
but the irony and cliche
collectively became far to heavy to hold