The Hurting Kind: Poems

by Ada Limon

I didn’t know then that it wasn’t even love that I was interested in but my own suffering. I thought suffering kept things interesting. How funny that I called it love and the whole time it was pain.

My shards are showing, I think. But I do not know what I mean

I have always been too sensitive, a weeper from a long line of weepers. I am the hurting kind. I keep searching for proof.

But haven’t we learned by now that just because something is bound to break doesn’t mean we shouldn’t shiver when it breaks?