 I'm sorry you were not truly loved. And I'm sorry that it made you cruel. Hardened. I'm sorry that you were not truly loved. And I'm sorry that it made you vulnerable. Skittish. Broken. I'm sorry that you were not truly loved. And I'm sorry that it made you build up a wall of bricks and mortar - tinged with insults and uncertainty and sweat - around your heart and your lungs full of gasping breaths and your amygdala. Calloused. You're calloused from fighting. Your shoulders ache from pushing away. Your back hurts from bearing the brunt of too many burdens that of course you would never share. Your teeth have been grinding together for years and even in your sleep you're a fighter. Hands clenched around the blankets and your toes pointed in imagined irritation. Eyes searching out the shadows after midnight, praying for the curtains to lighten and for another day to start. Praying for the shrouded darkness to just ... cease. You'll hurl out an I love you when you feel it's warranted, and maybe somewhere inside you - you really do feel it each time the three words tumble clumsily from your lips -- a small and unsatisfying repression of the vulnerability. The constant vulnerability - she's like an old friend standing beside you. A warm hand on your back. She doesn't leave you, does she? On cold December nights, she sleeps next to you and there's a small, painful comfort there. She's been so long beside you that you can't imagine stepping forward without her. You'll date like a dance. Your feet crunching through gravel in what looks like some sort of myopic, disgruntled two step. You'll step on toes and to you - it's a signal that the song has changed. You'll move on to the next partner with hardly a glance back. Because that way your cold hands are safe and untouched and your exterior remains unbruised. I'm sorry you were not truly loved. And I'm sorry it made you cruel. You will meet her one day and she won't care if you speak through gritted teeth and she won't care that her calves drag across your rigid body in the middle of the night. She won't care about sharing bed space with vulnerability. And she won't care about the tower you've built around yourself or how you meticulously carry it with you wherever you go.
Because The Girl You Meet will only know one way to love. Freely. Openly. And with no restraint. She will teach you the words and sing them back to you over and over again, and just when you think that you might be sick of the damn song ... You'll realize that you're humming it in the shower. You'll realize that you can hear it over your prayers at midnight. Slowly it will infiltrate the mortar and the insults and clamping down of your jaw when things get "too involved". She will be your deep breath. She will be omniscient in your hurt and yet - And yet. Your sore shoulders will still push at her. Your clavicles and your spine nearly crunching under the fiery pressure of her. Because just as much as you push, feeling nearly suffocated by her love, her affection, her time, and her starry eyes - she will just not budge. And somewhere within you, vulnerability will huff in frustration. Love doesn't budge, a whisper will form in your ear one Saturday afternoon while you're out for a run. And slowly, you will realize that you actually fell in love with a mason. And you will be angry that you didn't see it when she asked you to dance in that gravel. You're tired. Aren't you? Down in your soul. Exhausted from the shoving. Bones nearly breaking under the weight of your bricks. Legs shaking from running too far, too fast. And in one last attempt at brutality, you will call out to her with your lip hard: You love me more than I will ever be able to love you. She will only blink back at you, but she will carry that phrase on a little slip of paper in her purse. Scrawled out carelessly on an old receipt from some obscure grocery store where she found your favorite pastries. She will think about it when the clock reads after midnight and she's praying like the warrior she is - for you. Loving too much? She will sigh when her fingers drag along the corners of the phrase folded. It is a cross she has decided to bear. She is sorry you were not truly loved. And she is sorry that it made you cruel. The best part about this story is that one day, you will wake up and she will be curled up beside you. And vulnerability won't be between you. And you will realize that she has been the morning light through your curtains all along. And you will unclench your teeth, relax your toes, and your cold hands will find warmth on her hips. And you will realize that she loved you so much because she had to carry you and your hardened, broken, and calloused pieces while she put you back together. You will become a converted believer. Worshipping her on some sawdust trail. Singing to her the song she taught you so well. And you will be happy. You will be happy. xoxo, B. ** Just a quick note: This post was inspired by a few people I met this weekend. It isn't about my own personal life. I just feel like that should be clarified for my momma and for The Boyfriend's cousin's uncle's brother's wife who is probably reading this with a little side-eye. Love you people. B. |
