She wakes, shivering, in the dark
and wraps her arms around herself, desperate to feel anchored, somehow.
She’s filled with resentment, fear, anger.
She focuses on her breath. In. Out.
The rise and fall of her chest. Up. Down.
Yesterday, someone gave her the truest words she’s heard since it all began:
“A nod of recognition and a few moments of grief. Joy comes in the morning.”
Recognize. Grieve. Accept the joy of the morning.
She doesn’t want to hold this.
Doesn’t want to cling to pain.
Doesn’t want to use it as the mortar and brick with which to build another wall.
She wants to yell.
She wants to throw things.
She wants to hate.
Hate would be easy.
Hate would allow her to blame.
Hate would allow her to build her walls so high she’d never hurt again.
Never be vulnerable again.
Never be heartbroken again.
…And never love again.
Because she’s learning that love requires vulnerability.
She’s learning that in order to heal, she must draw closer, care harder, go deeper,
and resist the urge to harden her heart.
She’s learning that when it comes to love, the only way in is open,
And when it comes to pain, the only way out is through.
#tellhersummit poetry challenge, 30 days of poetry, day 4