Something is always going to hurt you.
Maybe, a friend who got lost in the waves of time, or a poem that you wrote for your father but got torn by a kid. Or the precious, lucky bat, with which you scored centuries, that broke one evening.
Or, an old woman, who looked at you with gleamy eyes from her window, every evening while you dressed up to go out. It’s going to hurt, when she passes away.
It’ll hurt when you think of your grandfather, when you write poetry at night, instead of your boyfriend. It’ll also hurt when you bruise yourself and put out your hand, to be held, forgetting that you don’t live with your dad anymore.
It is always going to hurt. In parts and pieces, to see someone kiss someone else’s wounds before yours. It’ll take you nights, or probably lives to get over the story. Of how two skins met and wounded yours.
It’s fine. You can always train your eyes to keep silent sometimes, and try to let go.
It always is. There is no way out of it.
The only way out is through the hurting.