That feeling when a small stone gets stuck in your shoe,
The way it irritates your skin, the tiny nicks and cuts,
Abrasions, rubbing together.
And even when the stone is gone, it still hurts
Because flesh has been caught, pulled open
By an insignificant object.
As you walk, the skin catches,
So you stop to assess the damage.
Redness, sweat and dust have gathered
Causing your toes to swell.
You sit and rest, moving your feet to increase the blood flow.
Thankfully, right at the bottom of your bag , is a plaster
Which must’ve been there for some time now.
Easing the wrapping off, you delicately embrace the wound.
It stings and you take a short, sharp breath.
The cushion between your toes feels safe, comfy;
Toes move in appreciation of your action.
And the stone? Flung far away.
Some might say that this is an attempt to say, in written form, the pain
Of words that are thrown to cause grief; small comments made to give maximum impact.
They’re absolutely right.
And my reply is this. As soon as you find the stone, stop its actions,
Take away its ability to stifle you, take away its need to hurt
And bind the wound so that it heals and, when you are ready,
Remove the dressing, the caution, so that the air can get to it.
Let love and kindness be your salve,
Be your source of comfort and joy.
And tell others that there is a way,
A way back to life,
A road that, although small stones may strew it’s way,
Is the road whereon you will find truth.