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Hurt Hurt is like being poked in the guts with a long pin. It’s like a heart being ripped apart and sachets bulging with tears puncturing yet staying contained, confined, unable to drain out. Exclusion is the grief at what might have been: of lost potential, strangled growth; the party invite never written, the friendship extinguished at birth. It’s not being chosen for the team; The “‘I forgot your name,” or “Which one are you?” ”Sorry, I meant the other one; Go and wait at the side, dear; we might be able to fit you in at half-time; No promises, mind!” Hope is not the light at the end of the tunnel, but the thought that sometime, somewhere there’s a place where square pegs can find a home; where spindly, crooked flowers that don’t fit into the catalogue can find a place to bloom right now, not “‘some day,” and where everyone knows your name. - 17.11.2020