Thundering pain

Fibro series, #5

A touch lights up the world in flashing pain.
Nerves of fire as it crawls across skin.
Burning a trail searing to drive insane.
Thundering pain is a place we begin.

The tiniest touches exploding bright.
Fireworks flowering in one quick flash.
Suddenly, loudly it lights up the night.
Thundering pain just waiting for the crash.

Ash, crashing down as it strikes by the touch.
Sound alight by the spasming thunder.
Roiling loud, then bang, there is the clutch.
Thundering pain pulling the mind under.

Just a small touch resets this storm anew.
Just a small touch threatening to undo.

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What’s it mean?

Today’s poem is part of the Fibro series—following drifting in darkness, an unseen swamp, a rubber band too tight, and body and mind—it’s about how a single touch, pressure, or brush of the skin can ignite a storm of pain. I look to highlight my own experiences with fibromyalgia and its associated conditions, so others see they aren’t alone in this. I’m describing that storm of nerve and muscular pains which can ignite, like a sudden thunderstorm in the Midwest bringing about rain, hail, lightning, and often tornadoes. It’s unexpected and vicious, then just like those same storms, the pain disappears — suddenly hitting in a slightly different spot. It sucks. It’s wearing pants where every touch of the material sets off its own little storm.

I find it therapeutic, though not physically comforting, to write about the different pains and their triggers to help me better describe what I’m feeling—hopefully this offers insight for those who don’t suffer and comfort for those who do.

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