I don’t think my heart was healed. When I think outside of what I thought was done to me, to how I perceived it. To the way I let it affect me. It all seems so strange and like a movie that I can replay in my mind over and over. My mistake is that I believe that you and others like you somehow know what I am thinking, as though me might share a frequency and that there is a link between our desires. It doesn’t work like that, we are all free flowing creatures without an anchor to the other. 

In the eyes and the soul that lives there, the walls are built high. We share an edge, a blade that carves out our emotions and spreads them cleanly in front. Each moment is different and some are so overflowing while others completely baron. It seems like to be completely naked, in the most vulnerable form is almost impossible. Yet we try, and tried with the select few that make their way into our lives. It still isn’t clear what there is to look for in another. Only snippets of when I have been most happy and when I have felt the most comfortable in the arms and company of another person. 

Between the words, in the soft carress or in the silence that we carry around and set down for a warm stare into the pits of void we confront in the mirror reflections. As I have grown, it has changed, the reflections morphing and contorting into terrible but beautiful images. Less likely to be broken or to break me. So much worry about the loss of another, it becomes possession, when we don’t even possess ourselves. When I have not protected myself, or filtered out the pieces that I share, there has been a truthful meeting between souls. So brief that it is almost lost the very next second. 

Why worry about being alone? About the genuine gift of breath and leaving ideas that we have painted on, off. To crave that connection and ability to be innocent with another person, without judging or wanting them to be different. To just be completely open and rippling through with energy and pure joy that leaps over and bounces back. When the expectations kick in, the responsibilities, as though we owe or they owe. Then the loss. How can we expect absolutely anything. I can’t remember why I thought the way I did but I know that it caused suffering. That there was so much fear about being accepted and trusted and trusting. When it’s all bare bones and whisped phrases and we choose how we see each other at every second.

So different always, I should be able to recognize how flexible we all are. How the boundaries are shifting and depicting new ways of being. Not to try to hold any emotion in the palm of my hand for too long. That there will be tastes of love in the smallest acts, without grasping. Forgetting every pinch on the musculature of my heart, and how I blamed the actions of others. These needs are fabricated and I hold it all within me. Yet I imagine my heart not healed, as though with the sadness, it should be bruised and wary. In truth, it is blossomed tissue, fueled by the tinder tides of new days and the disappearance of old ways. There is nothing to hold on to and it knows that better than me.