My therapist asked me to describe pain.

“It tastes like metal,” I said—
like the tang of blood you can’t spit out,
the kind that lingers at the back of your throat
long after the wound is made.

It smells like rain
trapped in a room with no windows—
damp, heavy, refusing to leave.

It sounds like a door closing slowly,
so softly you can’t tell
if it’s goodbye or just the wind.

It feels like sleeping with a stone in your chest,
waking up heavier than you were the night before.

It looks like me,
smiling at you,
while inside
I am chewing glass.

~ TlhogiInkWords ~