XII trying to talk about pain without sounding lame

I don't know how to tell you what it means,
In terms that aren't confusing, or abject,
I only guess what I have felt and seen,
The rest are things that I cannot project.
When every tendon, cell, and fighting bone,
Feels quite suspended, on an endless rack,
You send what's left of you to bring them home,
Which then gets lost, and forgets the way back.
It grows, this sinking sense of orphanhood,
Just breath alone in miles of throbbing space,
The only thing to prove it's understood
You once had form, and that form had a place.
    I try hard to remember on such days:
    Each scattered piece is breathing the same way.