My Public Journal

This poem came from a small, ordinary moment, a cut on my finger. A cut that turned into something quietly reflective. I wasn’t seeking pain, but when it came, I chose to stay with it instead of pulling away. It felt like a guilt-free way of feeling something physical that mirrored what I was carrying mentally.

A knick on my skin
A papercut or something akin
The water made me aware
Pain rose as it washed the tear

I did not shutter away
I stayed, let the pain sway
I could have moved, snap of a finger
I wanted the pain to linger

No guilt, no shame
The pain matched my sane
A knick suddenly turned into much more
It illumined my sanity as the water poured

I watched the ache and let it stay,
A quiet proof I could still feel that way
Not to suffer, not to mend–
Just to meet myself again

The line “pain rose as it washed the tear” plays on layered meanings. The “tear” as both a rip in skin and a tear that falls. The word “rose” hints at both a flower and the act of rising, showing how pain can bloom and sting at once.

When I wrote “the pain matched my sane,” I wanted to emphasize “my” because there’s nothing conventionally sane about finding peace in pain, but in that moment, it was mine. The poem isn’t about seeking harm, but about observing it, the strange, quiet understanding that sometimes, pain feels like proof of being alive and aware.