She reached out to me recently, and I have been grappling with emotions from one end of the spectrum to the other. Anxiety gripped me to the point of not being able to sleep for two nights, but has since calmed into a place of silent truce. There is never a rational explanation for why the heart reacts the way it does.
To some, there is disappointment that I seem so easily led back into a place that hurt me so deeply. To others, unsurprisingly, their incomprehension is palpable. And yet, to those who have not witnessed the battle and know nothing of the tug-of-war that raged, they see a love story both tragic and romantic, and wish me well on whatever path I take.
I am in a place of reflection and processing. Not good. Not bad. Just is.
She has changed. I don’t recognize the fearful, broken, little girl. She kept that part of herself hidden and well protected from me. From everyone, I think. I have only ever seen the proud lesbian. The passionate woman. The angry warrior. And the lost soul in search of herself. I don’t know this vulnerable, scared and deeply buried person who has shied away from life and engagement. Who fell so deep into the rabbit hole, I fear she may never fully come out again.
I feel no pity for her. She does not deserve that. I have a fearful, broken, little girl inside of me as well. I get it. And as such, I can only feel a loving compassion and deep empathy. I understand more than she probably realizes, or may even want me to. I read her writings and am happy for her that she has broken the block and the floodgates are open. Writing is such a powerful release. I know. It is mine as well.
I see her. She is familiar. I know her soul. And I have always known her heart. And yet, I have no idea who she really is anymore. We have both changed. Yet, some things seem destined to remain the same.
She is mother, daughter, sister, friend.
Light to my darkness, darkness to my light.
Confusion, turmoil, peace, home.
Lover, fighter, rival, ally.
Sex, lust, desire, wanting.
Anger, fury, passion, controlling.
Boi, girl, depends on her mood.
Broken child, healing woman, weary traveler.
Writer, poet, fantasy weaver.
Venezuela and the color red.
I am torn, divided, curious, reflecting.
She was once my entire world.
New, fresh, exciting, my first.
The very breath I woke and fell asleep to
And died a thousand deaths in.
Time has healed the wounds
Tho some are still tender to the touch.
I feel her waters flow around me.
Deep, azure pools of fairy wishes and golden dreams.
Pulling me back into a world I have missed for so long.
But there is hesitation. From a witnessing.
Surviving brokenness changes you.
I am free. I am stronger. I have grown.
I have conquered the mountain and risen above.
And I am proud of who I’ve become.
I know what I want.
And what I don’t.
Yet, a look. A smile. A hint of love
For she has always been
The keeper of my heart.
Stay safe. Be kind. Love yourself.