Pain Pouts

Pain Pouts

You push Pain’s digs away like the ghost voices of middle school boys who whittled esteem from your muffin top and secret crushes. You’ve picked this man, these subtly-orthopedic pumps, and a dress that is kind to your torso —easy to pee in. Its straps won’t slip, if you stand up straight. The woman who murdered your hair with a hot iron, you’ve forgiven. Your sister holds up the picture of the “practice do,” shaking her curly head. Your mangled-haired matron of honor says this will be the thing you laugh about later, and Pain slinks to the suite’s mini-bar, mopes with bourbon. You’ve practiced this walk on soft cotton, down a narrow aisle straight as the treadmill, your dad surefooted beside you. Banished to a corner, without place setting, Pain pouts. You ignore Pain’s bites and whimpers, a dismissed suitor who whines about what could have been. This is your day. You will not slouch on this polished floor, jazz jumping hot down your spine as your husband holds you.