Nineteen.

I don't know why some things hurt.

Small things,
things without sticks or stones,
things without fangs or knives or claws,
things with no pulse,
things with no words.

You click a button,
I gasp,
breath catching in that sensitive spot
only reached by intended pain,
intended rejection.

You click a button,
I drown,
waves of guilt overwhelming
a clean conscience.

I don't know why some things hurt,
why this hurts,
but it does.

It does.

Maybe the "why?" doesn't matter.