Ouch...

Ouch is good.

It's a pair of strappy bronze stilletos in a shop window and 142 minutes on the dance floor.

It's the first scratch on your new car. So you don't have to wait anymore.

Ouch is a frank opinion. 'Yes, you are a total idiot. But I love you.'

It's a phonecall. A little late. 'I'm sorry your dog died. Ten years ago.'

Ouch is what's left, when you forgive and forget. And a fist in your eye, if you ever dare forget.

It's meeting a better human being. And keeping a waxing appointment.

And holding a hand. But you don't really know whose.

Ouch is letting someone you love rip your heart out. And returning the favour. And laughing about it for the rest of your life. Together.

Ouch is incomplete repentance. Ouch is photoshopped suffering. The choreography of existence, one semi semi-painful second at a time.

Ouch is a scalding hot bowl of soup. But you can wait for it to cool.