every day wake up with a hatchet cleaving you from your breast down to where it is buried in your gut.
every day like you’ve been hit by a semi tractor trailer smashed and tossed aside
every day like your insides are intricate watchwork encased in fine-glass curvature, all of which now crushed, pulverized by some hammer that keeps pounding even though the damage is already irrevocable.
every day puking out the hurt everywhere you go in the hazy blur
while getting up, lying there trying to move it, taking a shower with extra attention to your now seriously slipping hairline, grabbing a stack of 100% sourdough rye crackers, spreading some organic peanut butter, scooping some applesauce, sprinkling a little cinnamon, heading off to work in all kinds of weather–lately usually very beautiful, pleasant, sunny, invigorating hopeful weather. Nice long walk and then sitting at the desk where people interrupt you all day long with their faucets, roofs, and hearts dripping, lights that go out, fans that stop, mildew that might be mold, horses galloping wildly, having lost their owners, who used to whip them mercilessly while riding skillful, elegant, proud, darting across the plains and in and out of woodboard-town with guns sparkling and overfull satchels spilling winnings.

Maybe you could tell someone
Ah but that presupposes they have the ears to hear it