Why Do I Hurt?

This rip in my spirit has been expanding for quite some time.
I’m not sure how or when it started, but it’s getting harder and harder to hide. 
How do I prune to this garden filled with bruises and cut stems. 
It’s taking me so long to even get here, I can’t believe that I have to sew it all back again.
 
How do I move forward if every time I grow I shred back to pieces.
How many times must I weld back together the same skin, the same bones?
What am I really doing except tattooing the same hurt, in different forms?
Filling up space until there’s no more spots left that aren’t scarred.
Bandaging up stab wounds that were only meant for stitches. 
I need to get to the root of this but, there’s so many layers to get through. 
How do I heal if I don’t even know where the weeds even start?

I’m filled with bad soil, been soaked in it for too long.
I feed my weeds. 
My blood nourishes them with tears. 
There is so much of me dripping from peddles that aren’t mine. 
You have emptied my well yet you dare wonder why I've stopped watering my soul.
Why is it when my pain is planted, harvested, and profited...everyone except me gets to call it beautiful. 

How do I heal?

The tears that feed my weeds can also be used to flourish seeds.
Living is embracing the ebbs and flows.
To hurt means you have felt, to have felt means you are living. 
If pain is planted, I will dig a hole for help right beside it.
Soft palm scooping soil, gentle fingers caressing dirt.
That's me giving all the love back to the source.
I will tend to the parts of my garden that need healing. 
If my well is emptied, I will use my lips and breathe life back into myself. 

A poetry collaboration with fellow writer hidithescribe

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