Why Don’t They Tell Us?

Why don’t they tell us?
When those who are paid to complete the skin reddening task of explaining how skin and muscles morph and change into emotional beings and the mechanics of how these strange body’s fit together.
Why instead don’t they tell us what will become of our hearts.
Our lungs.
The way our spines will bend
And our hearts will twist and contort when pressured by the weight of the world.
The way our lungs will burn and tingle after running in cold air
To release hot tension within us.
And the way our faces will be red and raw for the nights we cry ourselves to sleep.
The way the ocean will collect in our eyes and the waves that will break over onto our cheeks.
Not what will become of the muscles and tendons
And the rivers of red that flow just under the surface,
But the piece of us that makes us love strangers and long for places we’ve never been.
The piece that lies quietly under the skin that we decorate with goosebumps and scars.
They should play poorly directed films not only of the physical changes,
But of the twisting and bending that our hearts will endure.
Bending past the point that we would swear was the breaking point
And beyond what we grew up to believe we could survive.
That our hearts will swell to such a great capacity that we would swear
Our ribs were going to break.
That we will be filled with such laughter that our lungs will gasp for air,
And just the same we will be filled with so much pain
That we feel our lungs may collapse at any moment underneath the sobs.
Perhaps we would have turned out differently
If we had not been embarrassed by teaching on the oddities we were to become,
But made aware of the
beautiful
brokenness
That we would endure.

(H.R.)