Rough Draft

When the moon impatiently climbs the sky even though the sun is still saying his slow goodbyes,

And we’re driving down an empty road together…

That is my favorite color.

And if I could bottle it up, I would use it to paint you a picture to show you everything about me that I’ve kept hidden for as long as I can remember.

What I thought was broken and damaged, you called it beauty and strength.

And you called my heart a kaleidoscope.

I have been through things. Not as much as some, but more than most.

I’ve seen quite a bit, and the tales seem taller than reality…

Not that it matters, because they aren’t mine to tell.

And it’s almost funny sometimes, absorbing the reality of what is real- and that is that the truth is completely false… At least a third of the time.

I was young the first time my heart got broken.

Barely an adult, I knew more about the world than I should have, but still not enough to avoid the consequences of reckless behavior and impatient desires.

Blonde hair and a smile that could radiate energy unlike anything else, I believed that I was a force to reckon with.

I had tasted freedom and adventure, and it unleashed the beginning of a never ending addiction.

More excited than a mustang with the explorative needs of an eagle, I had more energy and desires than I knew what to do with.. So I made the wrong choices fast and carelessly.

And while I knew about accountability, it did not know me.

We drifted down the same river, the same path and the same direction, but never meeting nor ever crossing each other.

How could I have known better?

My brain says I should have, but my heart knows better.

I also know better than to trust my heart.

But my heart understands more than logic ever could.

So within myself, I locked my heart away in an iron box, and then built steel walls to protect myself further.

I refused to fall in love.

But lust tried me time and time again wearing love’s mask…

So I flirted a little.

Never too close, never too intimate - sensuality is the paint that an artist uses to play the part in real life.

The layers of walls we build as each trauma collides over us like New England beach waves are not always obvious obstacles - sometimes we think we’re being strong.

Sometimes we hurt ourselves more by trying to protect ourselves…

But after so many years of pretending, I am tired.

No- Exhausted.

I have been beaten and bruised, broken and discarded.

My soft edges feel sharp when I look at them, analyzing their existence.

But the more we break, the more we discover things we never would have otherwise.

I understand things now about myself I never would have otherwise.

I see the damage I allowed to happen… But I also realize that I did not allow anything

I .. I.. I..

We cannot understand our sharp edges or the colors we could produce if we ever stop being afraid.

We cannot stop being afraid until we accept the fear we create when our minds spiral and question and doubt -

It is not the outside world that attacks us -

Rather, it is the inside turmoil that haunts us.

We cannot control the universe, but we can control the world we live in - In the way an author controls the characters in the story that they are telling.

Are we not supposed to be the main characters of our own story?

So I have been trying to learn how to take control back - I have decided to write my story.

I will not ask forgiveness for letting go of the burdens I allowed others to place upon my shoulders.

I will not carry the volumes of knowledge others entrusted me with.

Their stories are now mine because I carry them along with my own.

You called my heart a kaleidoscope.

Not because you knew my heart had been broken.

You respect the broken and you love me through my healing.

Because your patience sees the picture my broken pieces can create.