It’s never neat and tidy. It doesn’t feel comfortable in clothes. While it hurts, it doesn’t hurt in the typical way but is heavy and low and pulling, like roots — not pleasant but real and necessary and satisfying.
It doesn’t ask permission, it just comes.
It doesn’t always flow. It also trickles and gushes and clots.
It’s strangely comforting although isolating: it doesn’t want you to socialize or be around people but you’re amenable to that…