Tales From A Heating Pad.

chronic pain, soft rage, moth metaphors, and occasionally…hope. poems from the heating pad trenches.

[e-sahana]

I’m here, I’m trying, But I’m disappearing.

[e-sahana]

When you’ve lived in the trenches too long, even peace and liberation feel foreign. The storm gave me words; the silence only gives me stillness.

[e-sahana]

If pain were a pet,

I’d call her Moth.

She flutters in when the room goes quiet.

Nests in my spine.

Lives off the warmth of old wounds.

I didn’t name her- she named herself.

[e-sahana]

MOTH

There’s a moth on my back,

wings stretched wide, heavy with ache.

Its body—my spine, rigid and weary,

its wings—my shoulders,

taut with strain,

wrapping tight around my chest, my arms, my neck,

a silent weight, a quiet scream.

Drawn to a flame that flickers within,

a flame rooted deep in the past—

a child’s wounds, buried but pulsing,

sending aftershocks through time,

reshaping my now, bending my will.

I move through the world

half-shielded, half-exposed,

guarding what remains of innocence untouched-

Fragments of self

that once knew freedom

without the burden of survival.

The tremors came,

and with them, the moth.

Feeding, lingering, waiting.

Even after the fire dimmed,

it did not leave.

There’s a moth on my back.

Its hunger unrelenting,

its presence unshaken.

It lives off the warmth of my wounds—

and I wonder, I ache, I ask…

when will it burn out?

Or maybe—

will I be the one to let it go?

~Echo Sahana

[e-sahana]

Had one of those mornings where Fibromyalgia got the head start, and I was just trying to survive without growling at the universe. And then a stranger wrote this on my coffee cup. Doesn’t fix everything, but it cracked the numbness for a second. If you’re in the same fog, maybe this is your nudge too.

[e-sahana]

I am in the middle of the longest and meanest flare up since my diagnosis 2 years ago. It feels like there is another person inside of me - but it’s only just my nervous system. I call it Cru’ella.

[e-sahana]

MOTH

There’s a moth on my back,

wings stretched wide, heavy with ache.

Its body—my spine, rigid and weary,

its wings—my shoulders,

taut with strain,

wrapping tight around my chest, my arms, my neck,

a silent weight, a quiet scream.

Drawn to a flame that flickers within,

a flame rooted deep in the past—

a child’s wounds, buried but pulsing,

sending aftershocks through time,

reshaping my now, bending my will.

I move through the world

half-shielded, half-exposed,

guarding what remains of innocence untouched-

Fragments of self

that once knew freedom

without the burden of survival.

The tremors came,

and with them, the moth.

Feeding, lingering, waiting.

Even after the fire dimmed,

it did not leave.

There’s a moth on my back.

Its hunger unrelenting,

its presence unshaken.

It lives off the warmth of my wounds—

and I wonder, I ache, I ask…

when will it burn out?

Or maybe—

will I be the one to let it go?

~Echo Sahana

[e-sahana]

You’re not ruined.

You’re gilded.

[e-sahana]

[e-sahana]

MOTH

There’s a moth on my back,

wings stretched wide, heavy with ache.

Its body—my spine, rigid and weary,

its wings—my shoulders,

taut with strain,

wrapping tight around my chest, my arms, my neck,

a silent weight, a quiet scream.

Drawn to a flame that flickers within,

a flame rooted deep in the past—

a child’s wounds, buried but pulsing,

sending aftershocks through time,

reshaping my now, bending my will.

I move through the world

half-shielded, half-exposed,

guarding what remains of innocence untouched-

Fragments of self

that once knew freedom

without the burden of survival.

The tremors came,

and with them, the moth.

Feeding, lingering, waiting.

Even after the fire dimmed,

it did not leave.

There’s a moth on my back.

Its hunger unrelenting,

its presence unshaken.

It lives off the warmth of my wounds—

and I wonder, I ache, I ask…

when will it burn out?

Or maybe—

will I be the one to let it go?

~Echo Sahana

[e-sahana]

“She believed she could, but her body yelled ‘plot twist!’ and collapsed.”

[e-sahana]

If silent battles fought in stillness left bruises, I’d be black and blue- maybe even missing a limb.

[e-sahana]

If pain were a pet,

I’d call her Moth.

She flutters in when the room goes quiet.

Nests in my spine.

Lives off the warmth of old wounds.

I didn’t name her- she named herself.

[e-sahana]

“She believed she could, but her body yelled ‘plot twist!’ and collapsed.”

[e-sahana]

“Fibromyalgia: because why not be allergic to gravity?”