Gnaws, chews, twists, gouges whatever nerves there are to respond.

Moment to moment is merely from twinge burn to sear in a few blinks.

Relentless. It never quits. A dragon in one’s own body.

But, the dragon is one’s own body, screaming from injury.

Why does it have to work this way?

Why not one big hurt for an hour, then the dragon shuts off?

Why the relentless, ongoing suffering,

For what purpose?

Other than to produce sweat, tears, fists that bang on walls,

And friends who gather, only to watch in sadness, the marauder of misery.

Though they can only see outward shows of clenched fist courage,

Through smiles that curve up on the outside and down on the inside.

They have no idea that pain of cuts, bruises, rendered flesh, ravaged body,

Is but a cake walk to the terror that reaches into the mind in the depths of sleep,

And makes the battle of one’s own bed,

The point.

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