The Quiet Ache

This is usually the time of day I start to think about it,
About how silly it is to spend so much thought
On such a small and unimportant thing.
That's what my PR department tells me,
So that's what I publish on my face,
"Ow!" and a wince
Like there's a splinter in my finger
Or a scratch from a tree branch that I just brushed in passing.
I glance at it like it's a bruised toe that I stubbed on a rock:
"It doesn't hurt that much, I'll be okay."
And I forgive the rock and continue on
Because it didn't mean me any harm,
That's what I tell myself.

But if it was a splinter I would have pulled it out,
And if it was a scratch a band-aid would have fixed it,
And if it was a bruise it would have faded away,
But none of these happened, because all the brave faces
Were stories I made up, just like everybody else.
We hide the wounds that no one else can see,
But are sure to make sure the whole world knows we're hiding something
Because if we share the pain a little
Maybe there will be less of it left with us.

If it was a sharp pain I could numb it,
A crying anguish, I could scream,
Or a burning hurt, I could out-wait it,
But it's not. It's the quiet ache that's not limited to blood.
Not unimportant, so important
That God chooses to let it stay
To teach me trust, to send my prayer another's way,
Or for some other reason.
All that's left for me to do is accept,
Accept the quiet ache and hold it close,
And treasure it for what it represents.