I pulled up the neck of my sweater before I knocked on your door today. The story etched on my skin is not one you want to know. Even though it traces something beautiful.
So, I buttoned another button before I served you your eggs. I layered my hair over my shoulders before I hugged you goodbye. Because I love you, and understand how helpless exposure can make you feel.
But I could not conceal the breath of release that escaped, when I closed the door behind me and could shed what was not my own. Or suppress the ease of my smiles, when he presses his lips against my raised colors and whispers, "You're healing nicely."
Monday, June 20, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
Midnight
Sometimes I wonder how many people stay up at night mulling over the things they didn't do. Words that went unsaid. Stories that went unwritten. Touches that were never embraced. Hearts that were never shared.
In the mornings, we all get up and look out at a world weighed down by so much pain. We drive in it, we demand our iced venti bolds from it, we mindlessly kiss it goodbye and rush to side-step another version of it outside our door. We catch reflections of it in our monitors, staring back at us.
And tonight, I lie awake and I can't help but wonder how much of it has been magnified—how much of it has been perpetuated—because today I was too afraid to let people know I seem them, I am affected by them—by all of it—and care.
And I am overwhelmed. I never want to lose another minute of sleep because I was too afraid to actively and intimately live.
We will be misunderstood, we will be imposing at times, we will not say the right thing, and we will undoubtedly hurt people. But I'm beginning to suspect the real truth to be feared is: nothing is as painful and damaging as love withheld.
In the mornings, we all get up and look out at a world weighed down by so much pain. We drive in it, we demand our iced venti bolds from it, we mindlessly kiss it goodbye and rush to side-step another version of it outside our door. We catch reflections of it in our monitors, staring back at us.
And tonight, I lie awake and I can't help but wonder how much of it has been magnified—how much of it has been perpetuated—because today I was too afraid to let people know I seem them, I am affected by them—by all of it—and care.
And I am overwhelmed. I never want to lose another minute of sleep because I was too afraid to actively and intimately live.
We will be misunderstood, we will be imposing at times, we will not say the right thing, and we will undoubtedly hurt people. But I'm beginning to suspect the real truth to be feared is: nothing is as painful and damaging as love withheld.
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