Some days are better than others. Today, the sun is shining on my bare skin like the illumination of glass and the empty street means empty anxiety when I sit outside to write. Today is a good day.

Last night was not a good night. I came out to one of my oldest friends, and as she reassured the group for the third time that “I like boys, sorry guys,” the bruise on my foot throbbed as an echo to my heart-- black and blue and yellow with age, but a strong pulse just the same.

Vulnerability is a frightening concept. As human beings, we would much rather hide in secrets and pain than open ourselves up to a world of messes and relationships and hurt and beauty. Whether your bruise is “I'm gay,” “I failed English class,” or “I love you,” it doesn't matter. Discoloration does not discriminate, and as it festers under your fingertips and in the crook of your elbow, your soul will begin to shrivel. While you may be protecting yourself from pain and discomfort, it's nothing compared to the isolation you will feel as you watch girls cry on their mothers' shoulders. Vulnerability may be the scariest moment of your life, but it may also be the most necessary. It's like when little kids get sick and have to take medicine or get a shot. It hurts now, but it'll feel better soon; I promise.

Today has been a good day. Tomorrow might not be. We might end up staring out the window at 2 AM, wondering how the hell we'll find the strength to make it through this. When that moment comes, and it will come, we are going to stare at the kaleidoscope of colors in our bruises, and as black fades to blue fades to purple fades to yellow fades, we will breathe, and we will live another day.