#flipturnt

His words, touches, rough marks of love scattered across your tender skin, have always had an easy way of putting you back together, not unlike yours on him. But today you still can’t quite trust it, the stitches he’s expertly woven over the deep cut he himself has inflicted too.

His love for you is obvious, but yours might not be. As your self esteem falters, so does your behavior, so do the actions of your commitment - and that must be what he’s missing, that must be what has caused him to lash out so openly: further fruits of your insecurity. You cling to this moment, thinking it ephemeral, entirely expecting to do something else soon, that’ll only make his next reaction more violent, and you can’t help but think you’ll deserve it.

He still loves you, but that can’t fix the broken bits of you, all the patches that’ll never be good enough. You’ll only keep disappointing him, and sooner or later maybe even his love will fade. And then what will happen to you? What will ever happen to him? How dare you even get this far?

He stirs awake the second before your first tears start flowing again, and he is quick as always to sniff them out, lick them up, kiss you so deep down you forget every pain but the sweetness of claws digging into your sides, your lungs filling up with the breath of him, your heart bruising up as it crashes against your own ribcage.

He says you’ll feel better after you eat and you agree. You even smile a little as he licks the sugar off your fingers, the bits of flesh clinging to your bloodied kitchen knife, happy as the Cheshire cat.

Through the entire time there is no remorse in his eyes, no trace of evidence to say everything isn’t as it should be, and that somehow only makes your chest feel heavier. You can’t trust this to last, not unless you do better.

Or break this for good.

It’s only way later, after a blur of hours spent further in his arms, that you dare return home, and even then you drag yourself straight to your room, the house empty in your path, allowing the tears to flow freely again as you sink into the mattress.

You don’t know either how long you’ve spent like this, time measured not in minutes and hours, but instead in bouts of tears and each consequent apathy. You try to keep busy, work on your next table, blog for a while, but your attention unavoidably draws back to his criticism, and your pathetic inability to deal with it.

A few eras pass, floods succeeding droughts, and he comes gently as the new rains die, the sun rising through the bedroom door. You don’t quite recall if you greet him or not, but he approaches just the same, and you’re certain he knows why you’re like this. “Rough Moonday?” the proof comes.

Rough Moonday.

He settles next to you, and the moment his palms cup your face, your skin flares to how much you’ve missed him. Tears stream through the sunlight, and he kisses them up, tracing rainbows along your lips, forehead, cheeks. Your fingers cling to fabric, to starry skin, to warmth and golden hope.

He murmurs, soft yet coarse, close to tears himself, and you hate the pain that irradiates off you, affects him so. He tells you about how he’s seen your table for him, and he spills the most gorgeous tapestry, in vivid color and raw emotion, a thank you and a return of feelings, a sanctuary for you both, the relief in your heart, knowing that at least for you and him, things can keep growing, you can do better, love more.

Eventually he smiles wider, pokes loving fun at the sap to your words, draws laughter out of you, and your arms reel him ever closer, you become a mattress to the firebird in all his fiery glory. Between sniffly kisses, soothing moments of solace, he talks about his day, about the little moments you’ve missed since you were gone, relays the loving messages from your family you hadn’t caught, of encouragement and worry, slight impatience, but ultimately, understanding.

You thank him for being ever so wonderful and supportive himself. You tell him you can’t wait to make it all up for him. You always do.

It’s only when he gets up to start making the evening’s meals, dropping one more kiss on your forehead, that he lingers on the doorway, hesitant. “Whatever it is he’s said to you… I know you won’t believe me now, but he’s- ...You know... and you’ll figure it out soon, I just know it, and you’ll find a way to make it good - no one can do that with him like you do. But trust me when I say: he's good at making you believe what he wants you too. And you'll... always be clearer than that.“

He’s right: you can’t believe that Deacon’s criticism is anything less than fully genuine right now, and the pain still weighs you down. But then you see it in Daven's face, the way the subject doesn't let him speak openly, with the same warmth to his voice. You know he knows well what he's talking about, he takes so much of it. Maybe you can still make it better for him, and for Dea. You can still make it better for yourself. He leaves to go nourish your home, and you heave a deep sigh.

Insecure.

The word glows brighter than the rest, and even if you were well aware of the latching grasp its always had at the back of your head, it’s still daunting to realize just how marked its presence has been to others too.

Others sting almost as much, irresponsible, inattentive, passive, timid, and the more you read them over the more your thoughts fill with different reasons and offenses you might have done to justify these, clogging up all channels of rationality and drowning you in the dread and despair of their overblown consequences, explosions in your mind.

I’m sorry I failed you, I’m sorry I hurt you, I’m sorry I didn’t notice, I’m sorry you were burdened by something I did, please let me redeem myself, please let me fix this, don’t let me go without giving me another chance, please don’t go.

You’ll later realize how you missed the irony, of course, that the flood of horror that follows these words into you only cements your insecurity further.

The last word you linger on is also the one that causes something to change, one that replaces every shred of panic with determination.

Unhappy.

Because as much as you claw at your own faults and failures, scratching your skin as to endlessly, feverishly rearrange its patterns into impossible figures of perfection and bliss, you won’t stand for your hurt to lie about the beautiful world that surrounds you like this.

In all your vanishing self-worth, brittle mental health and fickle energy, your core happiness has remained untouched, and you know now, with a certainty you do not hold for anything else, that you’ve never been this sweetly consumed by it before.

For happiness isn’t in transient moments of laughter, or the thrill of ephemeral passion, a quick high right before the tall fall - although, you remember fondly, it is built from these too. Happiness is a sanctum that holds even when you bring the storm with you across the threshold, that takes your roots and nurtures them for as long as it takes for you to purge the clouds, that blossoms as you recover, pushing you along.

You are broken down and leaking at every wound, frail and drained and knelt, but never unhappy. Even now marks of others on you kiss your skin in support, warmer words finger written on the virtual glass of another window touch you, fond red eyes smile at you between lazy orders.

And you know, more than well by now, exactly what it is that’s preventing you to show this happiness fully. You know by now, how to help your own sanctum bloom.

You know the doubts that keep the insecurity alive.

You stand up, laptop captchalogued, and the boy behind the counter meets your gaze across the room. He leans away just to ask his manager for a tiny break, and you’re already walking out the back door, sunbound.

His apron is tossed aside and warm palms melt you to the wall, press along your chest and collarbones, cradle at your face. Your closed eyes diminish the picture of him by nothing, and your whole body kisses him like melted wax pooling near the flame, light pushing back the shadow until the walls are gold with delight.

You know you’ll carry him for hours, like bedsheets that had been basking in sunlight all their lives, and your whole home has taught you how you carry your own glow as well, if you are only brave enough to search it.

Today, you’re ready to start looking.

He knows where you’re headed, what you’re doing, why you need it, and as much as he’s always struggled to voice sharp emotions, keen support, he’s never once let you fall, and you lap up every wonderful gifted word he offers, and you read the rest, the unspeakably lovely, in his eyes.

You’ll see him again soon, in a matter of hours.