A word that barely scratches the surface.
A word that explains so little for a feeling that could swallow the world whole.
There isn’t a better word for it. Maybe there are synonyms, maybe acronyms, maybe poetic metaphors,
but none of them are enough.
Because hurt isn’t singular.
Maybe hurt should be plural.
When I say I’m hurt, it feels like a ball of yarn
torn apart by the hands of the unhealed.
Tangled by my own fingers while I try to unravel it—
trying to find the root, the core, the center of what aches.
But as I pull the thread, I realize,
More moments I thought I’d moved past.
And that’s when it starts to make sense.
But also… no sense at all.
Because hurt doesn’t always come in the shape of tragedy.
Sometimes, it’s quieter than that.
It’s the friend who left without warning.
The unkind word that took root.
The loneliness that crept in while I was busy surviving louder wounds.
We think there’s a tier system for pain,
that certain hurts earn the right to break us,
while others should be dismissed.
But I’m starting to wonder…
does pain measure itself before it moves in?
Does it ask permission before tangling itself into us?
Because those little hurts,
the ones we tell ourselves don’t matter,
are the ones that wind themselves the tightest.
Threading through the grief we thought we already survived.
Pulling tighter every time we try to breathe.
And when we finally break,
we don’t shatter all at once.
A single thread at a time.
Because it’s not just one knot.
And by the time we notice,
the yarn has wrapped around everything;
our ribs, our lungs, our heart—
until even the softest ache feels impossible to name.
That’s the thing about hurt.
It doesn’t end when the moment ends.
But it holds a whole spool inside.
Will it ever fully unravel?
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