And It Still Hurts

It still hurts, like it did when I was fourteen years old in my bedroom staring at the ceiling wondering if life could get any better than how I liked to imagine it could be; when my tears dried up on the sides of my face resembling the barren desert in which my childhood joys lied lifeless. It still hurts like how the Boogeyman I grew to ignore is still there under my bed, writing me love letters about how he misses the sound of me crying myself to sleep every night. 'It made me feel alive how much you wished to die,' he wrote once. But I'm grown up now, or at least I thought I was - yet it still hurts.
I'm grown up now, because my pain has become more physical than otherwise, and for that I don't need to cry out loud. I bite my lip and hold it in, praying that my body will eventually know peaceful harmony. But it still hurts like the prayers never reach their destination and to know pain is the only way I could fathom my existence. For me, to be alive means to be at death's doorstep begging for mercy, and that's what my guardian angel told me the day I was born by a miracle that was not meant to be.
And it still hurts like it did when my father was crying in the delivery room when losing his wife and yet-unborn daughter was almost a reality too grave to ignore. But we're both alive now, and I'm still being punished for having cheated death. I can feel it in the way my pelvis hurts like I'm going into labour, ready to birth forth into the earth all the agony I've bottled up into this dainty body of mine.
And it still hurts, most excruciatingly, to know that all my agony could be turned into a love great enough to heal the pain of my fellowman.