She was a novel.
A well-written tragedy.
She had been used.
Her pages had begun to curl at the edges,
But what remained was still captivating –
Even after all these years.
I was in love with the sound of her voice.
There was a rumbling in its depth
That carried all of her afflictions,
And I was swept up in the echo –
Hoping to drown in the wave.
It was through loving her
That I first learned to love myself.
Heart to soul.
Finger to cheek.
Lip to neck.
Tongue to clavicle.
Layer by layer she unwrapped my insecurities
And found me lying bare-chested
In the moonlight.
It wasn’t until after she left
My secrets strewn across the bed
That I realized
I’d have to tuck them all neatly in again.
I tried to analyze my parents.
Story by story I would break down
their decisions and reactions and
I would try to compare them to my own
Hoping to find clarity in my mistakes.
But I am not my father’s quick-step
Nor my mother’s bleeding heart.
I am flesh and bone.
Foul mouth and crude humor.
I am a lady.
I am also a tramp.
I am the definition of a fixer upper.
And I wear it proudly.
Because sometimes when the moonlight
floods in through the windows
I hear her deep whisper,
“It’s ok to feel broken.
It’s alright to survive.”