Getting hurt is,
more than anything,
a lesson in patience.
I started learning this the day I tripped on my shoelaces
for the second time in two weeks
(the first time I laughed,
the second time I cursed and cried.
Jokes get old pretty quickly).
My knees were so full of colors that didn't belong,
textures that weren't quite normal.
My palms were breeding grounds of blood and dirt --
okay for a child in the sandbox,
not so much for someone my age.
People would ask,
and like everything else I'd smile, laugh, say,
We all fall down --
that's gravity, that's life
but I don't see anyone else here
whose skin is such a tangible and vivid painting
of their own gracelessness.
Someday soon I suppose these wounds will fade and
instead of Bandaids I'll wear scars.
Right now I am still waiting for the pain to stop
in between every breath
that in time all things go.