the process of healing is a strange,
shy thing.
it sneaks up on you slowly,
honey coating the tongue,
nectar dripping from the lips like blood upon the pavement.
and at first, you step away from it,
you are not used to being handled gently,
and the memory of cuts and scrapes is far too harsh against your mind.
but it starts slow,
first in the smiles stolen from secret glances,
then the swell of your chest when you realize that anger no longer makes a home in your heart,
and healing finally breaks through the
rough, blackened stitches of your heart
when you see the morning sun against the pale purple sunrise,
and you think
"there i am."
it is the first time you feel safe.