My country’s name is Pain.
And I beg you not to confuse it for a pseudonym.
Pain is its birth name – it’s a name it bears
with all the connotations of a being in pain.
I once told an immigration officer that I was from Pain,
and his face spoke a frustration I wish I didn’t know –
it was the look of being toyed with.
And that was how I knew he didn’t know Pain,
and if he did, he only knew the facetious facade
that hides its sunburns and death pangs.
Every time I remember that I am in Pain,
a morbid abscession bubbles in my skull
and pours a caustic rain down the hills of my face.
So when aliens tell me to fix the leak,
I feel mocked by their tactless talk.
From what I’ve learned about pain,
I know it never goes away when you live in it.
And when you can’t run from it,
you make room for it.
