When a wasp stings you in the grass next to the beach when do you feel it sting?

When it hits you? Or when you see it?

Does it take a while for the pain to transfer from one nerve to another, from your second toe on your right foot where you stood on said wasp, to your brain where it registers said pain, to your mouth where you cry out to your dad about said wasp and said pain and as vinegar mixed with sunscreen the meaning of my tears changed

From wasps

To venom

To everything because it’s been a while since I had a good cry

One that makes my eyes stings and my back shudder and my chest close up

I’m not sure what makes a good cry good especially when it hurts

Is there such a thing as good pain?

Pain can be worth it, I’ve been told, I’ve had my lungs and stomach torn to shreds then been asked: “Where does it hurt?”

It’s impossible to tell you where the pain is when I can’t see it, and what I can see is impossible to miss

I am a testament to every knot of pain in my chest

My knees and throat are covered in bruises from bending over the toilet never actually vomiting, never quite being able to bring myself to shove my fingers down my throat

Did you know that in 9th grade I could count my own ribs?

But in 9th grade I was only nauseous when I was sick. 

Now it’s a constant: this monotonous droning of acid reflux and the dizziness that follows it.

My self-hate manifests in sickness, manifests in sick thoughts, manifests in Monday morning and lowercase truths spinning around a party I wasn’t invited to

What is the most common reason for first trying alcohol?

Is it because it looks fun?

Because you’ve been told it’ll make you fun?

I carve fun into my thighs, I vomit glitter into my lap, I dance until my feet bleed.

I want to go home but I sit in this buzzing silence.

Sometimes I know I need to step back and say it’s not okay, but I know I’ll never do that

How could I?

Everything around me is on fire and I will never change

I am burning and burning and I am walking with one plodding step in front of the other

In this passionfruit monotony, nothing is sweet but they can never make me bitter, they can never make me stop walking

I have walked out of every doctor’s office alive 

I’m still alive 

Is this living?

Is this really it?

And in that case, am I doing it right?

I need a reminder that living is more than just a slow decay

That there is no stinger, just venom

How do you fix a pain that you cannot see?

The answer is simple:

You feel it.