It hurts the first time, it hurts the 17th time, and it hurts the 54th time.
I don't think about him being dead all the time anymore.
But when I do, and when I'm forced to, it stings with the pain of a thousand knives, seeping their way into every pore of my skin, breaking open that wound, and whispering: "He's dead. He's dead. He's dead. "