My wounds

The real wounds aren't the ones that you usually chat about over coffee or wine. The real wounds are the ones that cramp my stomach, coiling up to tighten and burn my throat so I can't speak, the ones that fold me in half as the tears fall all over again. The real wounds are the ones that I keep away from coffee dates and wine nights because that is what I have taught myself to do. The real wounds are the ones l may never heal if I continue to do what l have taught myself to do. The real wounds heal by being allowed to rise and be held. They are healed by learning to talk through the burning and choking allowing myself to be held as I fold in half and cry it out even, if I am the only one doing the listening and the holding. The real wounds begin to heal when I give them a voice and allow them to be heard.