whose fault is it when you cannot find safety in the arms of the home you’ve created? is it anyone’s fault at all?
will you heal in the same place you were hurt?
can you heal in the same place you were hurt?
should you heal in the same place you were hurt?
and what will become of the hurt if you do? of the place? of you?
and if not what is left?
what is left to break to heal to love to learn?
what is left but your softly whispering voice asking for safety but not knowing who from?
I walk in to an empty house –
the first time in a long time that the space around me promises its vacancy.
This is hard to grasp hold of as lately any company feels empty.
I do the things I know to do but do them meaninglessly.
I scrub my body clean,
let the hot water sink in,
slip it into cleaner clothing.
Checkmarks on a checklist but nothing more than this.
And then it is time to dry my hair.
So I sit cross-legged in front of this pain inducing mirror –
the first time in a long time that I sit face to face with my own reflection.
This is when I feel it.
I feel the ache in my bones,
the stabbing in my chest,
the soreness of muscles that are tired from lifting the world onto them.
So I look into the eyes that stare back at me –
the pain in them much too hard to realize.
I look at her and whisper,
“You are strong.
You are beautiful.
Look at the things you’ve created,
the people you’ve loved,
the things you’ve done.
You are determined, a fighter –
growing beyond even the things you know of.
You are magnificent“
And I swore that in that moment she lifted her chin higher,
and thanked me.
we carried our
bones in our arms, hanging
over themselves, their
ivory translucent against our
skin, and we felt the
weight of all we
are dragging us