All My Hurts

I’d like to gather all my hurts
And roll them up like clay,
But you’d be wrong if you assume
I’d throw them all away.

I’d sculpt a statue tall and fierce
And paint it garish hues,
Reflecting all the colors that
In life I’d never choose.

Then I would cart it to a spot
With nothing else around
And with one match, set it ablaze
And burn it to the ground.

Then, once my hurts were in a heap
Of ashes, I’d feel free
To focus on the things I need
To be a lighter me.