pain

My pain is real.

I touch it
when I pull a strand of hair from my sweater.

I hear it
clinging to roads and reverberating off of restaurant walls.

I smell it
in the fabric of a house that is not my home.

I whisper it
to my tea and toast.

I see it
when there is no light
though it is not here.

My pain is real.
I can feel it
climbing into my bones
draining blood
emptying the stomach.

My real is pain.