238 days ago:
I don’t carry around ghosts anymore. I don’t carry around my scars. I used to think love meant giving it all away. I used to think love meant holding on. My heart was a lesson I had to break to learn. I don’t write “come home” letters anymore. I’ve stopped grabbing at the backs of shoulders. My hands were not made for begging. My hands were made for so much more.
120 days ago:
This is the losing game – my heart like rot and want – trying to keep score – trying to have more. This is what love does. Makes fools of us all. So we’re lying back to back in bed, cradling our bruises like newborn babies.
19 days ago:
How is it something so strange could end so happy?
I spent years bleeding myself – letting others bleed me. Wanting to escape my skin so badly I sent the edges of myself running. I didn’t know how swiftly beauty could settle. How it could take everything inside of me and make it better; sweeter; easier.
I am here now – just off where darkness lives. Remembering the cold and lonely as distant memories; times and places I had been before but no longer was. Their lilac and blues smoldering in my rear-view mirror. A goodbye that is exactly what it entails: good.
I have two hands. He holds them both. He knows of their ruin and destruction. Has kissed every scar. Has not made me new, but stood next to me while I learned to carry this life; growing prouder as I grew stronger. Wanting everything. Believing everything. Showing me the love that had always existed inside of me, like an inexhaustible source, dating back further than my body – blossoming since the beginning of time.