That girl dragging the knife,
Is she really still me?

This recovery is like a bruising.
My depression didn't quite pierce the surface and **** me,
But still I bleed on the inside
With the damage contained but still visible.
First my recovery was red and swollen,
A tender lump raised from battle
Still too wounded to accept the name "recovery."
But as red became purple
And my blues began to set in,
I leaked back into myself
Now a flood rather than a mountain
My depression slowly beginning to drown.
Green felt like a turning point,
New growth that didn't hurt as much when I poked it
(When my depression poked it.)
The flood seems to have run its course now,
Replaced by yellows and finally browns
As this burnt battlefield turned into new soil that settled back down again.
Recovery is slow, painful, and has many shades
However, our need for it is as consistent as a bruise,
And just as dependable to come to an end with time.

That night
The tides were raised
By her crying eyes.

Silence makes me uncomfortable.
It's too raw and naked, the sudden exposure stinging like an open wound.
I always want to cover it up.
To fill the silence with something, like a word or a gesture.
Because in the silence there is time to stare.
Your eyes rake over my body.

Except...I think I like this silence.
I think, this time, *I want you to look at me.
Your eyes drink in my skin, glide over my curves, but only because they are pathways to my soul.
I will my shaky eyes to rise up and meet yours, only to have you grab my hand, stare me in my freckle-infested face and say:
"You are gorgeous."
To be honest? I think I believe you.

So in the silence you stare, and I let you.
Nowadays I get lost so deep into your eyes that I forget that silences are supposed to be uncomfortable.
But in the silence, our hearts aren't quiet at all.

Now all of the still spaces between moments I want to fill up with you.
The second between a sigh and then the curving of a smile.
The rustle when we trade morning papers.
The pause between text message responses.
The final hesitation, squeeze, and then release from a hug.
The inches between my tears.
The frozen period after inhaling and before exhaling.
Somehow you have made yourself at home in these spaces,
Fitting there just as perfectly as our interlaced fingers do.
Raw and naked, you make me glow.

Now there is no need for me to fill the silence,
When the brush of your thumb over mine and the flutter of your eyelashes like butterflies against my neck **say it all.

I can always count on the ground to catch me.
God do I wish I could count on a safe landing.
Here we go again.

It's you
Who keeps feeding the butterflies
In my tummy.
(: