Brokenness Inside You
You are reluctant, citing there’s too much of me for you to handle — are you sure it’s me, not your poor grasp on the kinds of mammals which require handling? That’s not the point. It’s not about rhetoric — it’s about the quotes on the outside of my hands, words strung together between them like popcorn tinsel draped around the Christmas tree of my mind. It’s about the pin pricks, the tiny gaps of light seeping through my pores into the universe; the fleeting moments, standing on a black sand shore on the cusp of a miracle building in my chest and rising and falling and rising again for the feeling, for the healing process, for the grief — I still mourn the loss, do you? Feel the emptiness I feel? Hide behind drapes as they are peeled back to let treacherous light in, the uplifting interruption from the universe, breaking your dismay?
What do you fear? Is it the brokenness inside you, or how I fit right in? You wonder how I squeeze all of me into your heart’s tiny room, filling gaps vacant for years prior. Know this: I am not a discounted deposit in the off season; I will not get you through the winter. I am your endless summer, your hurricane season, a constant category four. Stand on my path of self destruction and look up at the eye of my storm, swirling charcoal and emerald; see the blue skies at my core, and understand they’ve cleared for you.