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Healing looks like an eccentric collage with preciously frayed edges, captivating colors,
and stickiness that lingers on fingers.
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For me, healing looks like sweat-drenched, smile nestled cheeks, hips swirling though the Tiffany center.
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dumping their heavy names on paper repeatedly, ripping each morsel to shreds, tears, and sighs of relief.
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like the feared bar scene for the first time in months, dancing your ass off at 2 am, a victory lip bite and hip sway in the bathroom mirror.
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like Beck's 2 am "Lost Cause", puddled pillows, and hollow yawns.
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like 2 hour long heart-to-hearts, midnight laughter over bananagrams, pie bars and swing-set catch-ups.
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like cushioned toes and loose limbs
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like his face on punch bags, sweat stung eyes, and sore but strong-as-fuck arms.
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like sharing the liquid, flooding pieces of my heart, currents flowing onto my paper. Drenching to the point of drooping.
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Healing looks like knowing that every day is still a struggle that leaves paper cuts on my hands and heart. My edges still fray and sometimes even rip. But strengthening the realization that sticky, slightly glue glazed hands don't stick together- they still create.
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