Survivor Story
my erratic, nonlinear thing
Healing is
Remembering when I was unhealed because I was untouched. When I was glowing and breathless, not from running away or outpacing the pain, but from skipping and dancing and stepping on toes with all the room to apologize.
Picking the eggshells out of my feet and buying myself new shoes to cushion against this hard, hard floor. Giving myself the chance to dance without hurting my knees or wondering if it pleases you. Realizing that maybe I don’t need to condemn myself if I trip over my own foot, if I still step on your toe every now and then.
Being miles and miles away from you, whether I’m running, walking, standing and looking back, or circling overhead. Endlessly trying to catch up to your sprints or look out for your flying spears and white doves with olive branches that fly in to pick at my hair.
Meeting myself where I’m at and staying there as the rest of the world blurs by or claws at my heels. Letting things meet me too rather than taking them as they come because maybe not everything needs to be faced head on. Letting myself wave, say hello, and then keep walking where I was headed.
Wondering if I bled all over you and stained your favorite top after crying. And then wondering if it wasn’t blood at all but ice water because maybe I’m not cracked open, just learning to defrost. Regretting the mess all the same because I know you don’t like water stains either.
Letting the sand crack in this shell around me. Learning to be lifted up rather than encased. Feeling terrified when the blood runs and the tears flow but not rushing to clean it up and wash out the stains. Letting you know that you hurt me and no longer equating forgiveness with open arms.
The box that I put myself in and the hammer I use to break myself out and the jagged fragments scattered on the ground afterwards that I pick up and press to my heart. It’s as demanding as his embrace, asking nothing of me but to melt, and as gentle as the cries tearing through my throat.