The sorrows that found me didn’t ride my skin like thin, white scars. They burrowed deep into the marrow where scars are not seen, but felt with every footfall, every movement—both graceful and awkward. I cannot call them beautiful. They’ve opened doors to the inky abyss and shoved me in. My sorrows are not beautiful. They are full of rage, of longing, of disappointments, and some regrets. They writhe and course through my blood and bones—a chronic condition that needs tending.
This is what no one knows: That I’m an expert at faking it—those sorrows, the pain. That I’m an expert at denial and forgetting. That I’m an expert at making masks to fit in. Sorrows, beautiful, invasive, or chronic, don’t care about truths. Nor, in fact, does society.
But these sorrows step aside for stronger emotions. They step aside for love. That soul-deep feeling of connection and caring. The words that tumble and scatter, falling awkwardly from lips that feel numb. Shall we speak of the moon? My sorrows step back. Gaze at the moon. Feel the fullness of the moon, its cyclical ebbs and flows. I am alive in its soft glow. A glow that seeps into my soul, illuminating and caressing my sorrows. In these moments I am at peace and I love. The moon is beautiful.
© 2024 Caitlyn Frost. All rights reserved.
No comments:
Post a Comment