If I have the energy to heal,
then do I have the energy to expend?
To let myself try to love again?

Is it wise to take the little bit I have
And turn it to another and not myself?
Shouldn't I have learned by now?

Why am I not more reserved?
This energy isn't truly in abundance,
and would it not be selfish to think the small amount I have to give is enough for someone else?
It is barely enough for me.

This heart is so foolish,
and I have yet to learn how to tame her rash desires;
I wish she knew to quiet down.

Every time I push people away,
I wait for the door to rat-a-tat-tat
and revolve back into my face;
I had never considered how often I steal opportunities away from myself by running.

I run until I collapse,
and I've stolen compassion, and understanding with every half-sprint I take away from everyone that has ever cared for me,
because what do you do when they genuinely love you?

I don't know why it is so hard to believe that they could love me,
or that I am not wasting their time by asking for help,
but I know that I live in this doublethink,
where I both love myself, but no one else could possibly love me too.

Haven't you seen me like this before?
I'm on the brink of understanding
I have a difficult time loving myself in actions, just in theories in my head.
This is why I run like this,
and by constantly shielding myself from perceived danger,
I am actually blocking potential kindness too.

If I shut off the danger and the kindness, what will I have left for myself? Nothing.
I can't keep doing this,
I am going to have to let them in.

What if you were to see my tears of joy, instead of sadness?
What if I were to bask in the warm waves and let them consume me?
What would the world be like if I could branch out my wings and fly like this more often?

Would you even recognize me?
Would you understand all that I missed during my times of sorrow?
Would you notice when I am reborn into happiness, and will you remember it too?

God, I hope so.

This feeling is transformative,
to be alive like this,
and it is so comforting to be
held in the universe's embrace.

Perhaps you'll get a taste of who I've always been.

Tiny porcelain masks;
why not see what happens when you watch them fall?

Look at how
fragile and delicate they are,
each one hand-crafted to hide away
life's torments.

Be honest with yourself,
and retire them
before they crack against your own will.

People keep trying to tell me that it wasn't real love,
and I know how wrong they are when they say it;
people don't want to face the idea that a bad person is capable of love,
but they are,
and a lot of bad people have loved me.

I always took to doubting myself
and so it was no surprise I did
again and again and again
when you had me under your fingertips.

That night I finally saw you,
after months of being apart,
you hoisted me up on your bed
and the look in your eyes seemed so foreign;
there was a hunger there I had never seen before.

I was a bit uncomfortable,
but I missed you so much I didn't care
to think on it further;
but your touch was different too,
and for a split second, I thought,
I'd almost jolt up and leave.

It was so bizarre to me,
you used to be so scared to have me to yourself,
and all of a sudden your hands
were no longer afraid, and,
your grip was a bit stronger than before;
I should have known something was wrong.

This was the closest I had ever come to
feeling like your prey,
and it wasn't right;
every other time you held me,
I could feel the restraint,
that you had chosen a gentle touch
instead of being so demanding,
and I thought that meant you loved me enough
to be delicate.

Was that the case?
Why, now, were you able to be different?
A mechanism like that shouldn't be so easy to switch on and off.

What happened?
Was it becoming too difficult to keep up your facade?
Did you even realize you didn't change back for me?
Why do I always doubt myself?

What did that look mean
when you glanced at me like that?

Yes, it was true,
another person's lips had grazed mine
when you left me the first time,
and now that you'd come back,
you seemed to know something I didn't.

I hadn't lied
when I told you that
your lips felt right against my own
and his smokey breath did not,
and then the secret you had held was revealed
only slightly, of course,
and I didn't even notice.

When I told you that
I had wished I was kissing you instead,
what I had first thought was a look of love
was actually your look of embarrassment and shame
and this was because, you too, were a man with a smokey breath,
leaving imprints of your lips on another's
long before we had parted ways.

So, it wasn't her who kissed you first;
you filthy little liar,
and you were starting to feel bad
about what you had done.

I was none the wiser,
and sympathized with you,
thinking you too had felt like me,
a big misunderstanding between two people
and that you'd come back to me
because you realized my lips were better than another's,
not that you liked the idea
of getting away with infidelity
and then rushing back into my arms.

I always missed these signs,
and it eats away at me now
when I think about how many
times I should have known.

Why am I made to feel guilty for having loved him?
It wasn't my fault that he wasn't who he said he was,
and it didn't make my love any less genuine.

Why do I have to brunt all of this shame
for my innocent first real attempt at a safe love?
How was that fair to me?
All I wanted was to love and be loved.

But no, I had to pull myself together,
and immediately turn to shunning,
mocking, and avoiding him,
not even a month after he left me;
I had to repress how I had felt before to show face.

No one else had loved him as I did,
I was the odd one out,
and so I had to "hate" him too.
I still loved him; it wasn't fair.

He ruined everything
and I couldn't say anything about it,
stuck in the battle of knowing
I had to stand for justice and condemnation
of a man who had last held me in his arms
months before.

His bad behavior, in turn,
stole the grieving process from me.
I had to skip all the steps and lock it away
to protect others, to be strong,
and it wasn't fair.

I'm tired of feeling miserable
for having these good memories of him,
and it isn't my fault that he did bad things;
I just wish this never happened at all.

No one warned me about healing,
and that when you begin to let go,
it means working through all the things
you ignored along the way:
every weeping wound,
every halted, furious scream,
every memory you tried to forget,
and even the things you never knew
you'd felt in the first place.

To let go of everything that no longer serves,
I have to go back in time
and tell myself how it is all okay now,
and hope that will be enough
to set me free again.