this will become a poem but for now it's just a story
There is a sensation in the fingertips. There is a raw measure of pleasurable pain. The skin it touches is hot from the rush of blood and bold exposure. The turn of a head, the turn of a heart is solid and heavy. He knows he can hold it there and be careful. But, the mirror shows a crack. He shakes his head hard back and forth until the dizziness makes his whole body sway. He speaks the words out loud. ‘Weren’t you just here a few short months ago and last year and then again a few years before that’. ‘Look into my eyes,’ he screams and, ‘convince me that you really mean what you say ’cause all I seem to know is what I am told anymore’.
Living on the edge and holding his heart open and bleeding on his sleeve has never been easy. But he knows no other way. It just means he’s always torn and ragged and bloody. Now he feels it again under all of his skin, in places he did not remember to have feeling. Even though each one is different, he’s been here before and lots of times. He tells himself silently that maybe he can’t trust it. And then he says no, that’s not it, and that maybe what he really can’t trust is himself. He wonders how he could have begun to trust others when he knows now that he forgot to trust himself. After all that, after all he has done and after all he has damaged, he still can’t help but be in it, to look at it closely and wonder if this will be different finally.
What might be the price for being wrong?
Will he wear out his welcome?
Where can he go when he’s already gone?
But…the turn of head, the turn of a heart is solid and heavy and is his own.