Sometimes, I am too busy to notice it.
Sometimes, its weight makes my body leaden.
Sometimes, I can barely breathe as it radiates with each inhalation.
Sometimes, it sears inside my chest as if a knife gouged a hole.
A chest wound to the inside of my heart — my portion of the traumas of the world.
But wounds need to breathe to heal.
I imagine light flooding my heart and a shaft radiating outward.
A sword of light.
When I can feel its deep presence, I know I am healing.
The golden edges of my wound are sacred.
I must feel the pain to heal.
