“where does it hurt” he asked me one morning
“in my stomach” i said. (sometimes i traced over memories so often i carved holes into them)
“where does it hurt?” he asked again, days later.
“in my heart” i said once again. (the doctor said there’s no medical term for heartbreak and i said what about pain or torment or please-god-make-it-stop)
“where does it hurt” he asked, before he could finish i blurted out, “in my head”. (some dandelion fluff had gotten stuck when the pretty boy from work had smiled at me and his eyes crinkled)
“where does it hurt” he asked when i had come home one day, exhaustion leaking into every crack in my surface.
“everywhere” i said. everywhere.