bravado

ciara, i can’t think about such tenderness without flinching away. you taught me how to throw knives in self-defence and now i can only anticipate violence.

ciara, i cried in front of a room full of strangers and when they came closer to hold me, i wanted to scream. i don’t know how to let others touch me without being afraid of hurting. like all of me is an exposed wound that i can’t let anyone put their fingers on. it’s easier to live in fight-or-flight than have the strength to hope.

i’ve been dreaming of drowning, ciara. i dream i’m in a glass tank and everyone outside is taking photographs. capturing how i look as i try to punch through the glass. anger makes for good art. collateral damage is often worth it. i wake up with bruised fists. i am a warning sign, a tense guitar string ready to snap, a red blinking light. i almost understand why they would watch instead of breaking the glass and risking a flood.

i don’t know how to uncurl these fists. to let someone touch my hands as gently as a butterfly’s wing. to let them look at my jagged edges as something other than a threat. to believe i’m injured, not damaged.