trust and pain

There is a sensation in the fingertips. 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. Dependable. She knows she can hold it there and be careful.

But the mirror shows a crack.

She shakes her head hard, back and forth, until the dizziness makes her whole body sway.

Reset.

She speaks the words out loud, scolding herself.
“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,” she screams. “Convince me that you mean what you say, because all I seem to know anymore is what I am told.”

Heavy. Knowing she knows nothing. Instinct is all she has.

Living on the edge, holding her heart open and bleeding on her sleeve, has never been easy. But she knows no other way, despite the heartbreak. It means she is always torn and ragged and bloody.

Open.

Cautious, she feels it creeping under her skin again, into places she had forgotten could feel.

Even though each time is different, she is wise enough to remember she has been here before. So many times.

Experience.

She tells herself silently not to trust it.

And then she stops.

No. That’s not it.

What she really cannot trust is herself.

She wonders how she could ever trust others when she knows now she forgot to trust herself.

Awareness.

After all that, after all she has done, and all she has damaged, she still cannot help but step closer. To look at it carefully. To wonder if this will finally be different.

Anticipation.

The turn of a head and the turn of a heart are always solid and heavy. And they are her own.

Besides, where else is left to go when she has already gone?