My dear girl,
of course it hurts.
All of it.

Your skin is made
of tissue paper,
your soul the groves
of old,
and you’ve forgotten
you once called a place
among the keepers
of the stars.

It doesn’t get easier-
allowing this world
into your tender
grasp.

But it will get better-
if you can learn to
cloak yourself
and take strength in
the very thing that
ails you:

Your ability to feel.

The meek do not
inherit the earth,
because they walk
among the weak:

Instead they are
granted this sacred
bleeding land,
because somewhere
in the scope
of their tender
amenability,
life’s given them
an indomitable
heart to help
it heal.