maybe it hurts

Maybe it’s the culture I was raised in.
A culture of boys-don’t-cry and toughen-up’s
a culture that told me to shut up and act my age.
Maybe, it was all the things I learned from the pain.

Maybe it’s overexposure.
It could be possible that I’ve just felt too much,
experienced so much worse, that it doesn’t faze me,
that it’s just another part of life.

Maybe I like it. Maybe some small part of me
enjoys the sensation of stinging shock,
the sudden abrupt impact against my flesh,
or the thrill of being proven the lesser fighter.

Maybe it’s the inconvenience.
My own body hurts so often, without assistance
that I’ve learned to just hide it till it goes away
to ignore it, as a means of getting on with life.

What ever the reason, I cannot cry.
I cannot shed tears for pain or suffering,
I don’t sob or collapse when injured,
I just accept, deal with it as best I can, and move on.

Why waste my time complaining about injury?
Why should I vocalize what none can do anything about?
Why put forward the wasted effort when maybe
it’s easier to silently welcome each sensation.