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.