We are sitting at the breakfast table one
morning, and you ask me if I want
sausage or bacon. I tell you that I desire
forgiveness from my parents for all the
bottled up anger I’ve hoarded inside. I try
to put it down, but my anxiety means my
hands need something to hold onto.
Trauma can be a good stress ball if you let it.
You laugh as I fill up my mug with coffee
for the third time, and I meet your
lightheartedness with explanations of
low dopamine levels and how I was born
with a hole in my heart. I think even after
complete remission, I am still trying to fill it.
You kiss my forehead as you go to work,
and I tell you about the shame that rests
on my shoulders because I believe I am
inherently not worthy of love, but more
specifically, I am not worthy of your love.
I am a weak person who fails to be
independent and yet you love me the way
you do. What did I ever do to deserve that?
You check on me throughout the day,
telling me jokes and fun stories, and I tell
you of the wars I fought in the bedsheets
and the enemies that rest under my pillow.
I tell you that I am afraid of the monsters
that are closing in, and that I hope you
know I love you, just in case I don’t make it
out alive.
You come home with my favorite Chinese
take out, and I tell you that some days I
don’t eat because my body fails to tell me
the most simplest of things. Is this feeling
inside me hunger or is it my heart clawing
it’s way up my throat and onto a plate?
You eat my organ for dinner and I ask how
it was. You say that my love was the best
thing you’ve ever tasted.
You lead me to bed, helping me change
out of what I slept in the night before, into
what I will sleep in tonight. I apologize for
being useless and having done nothing,
but you quiet me. You tell me that I have
loved you today, and I loved you
yesterday, and I will love you tomorrow,
and that is enough.
You hold me close to your chest as I am on
the edge of sleep. I am too tired to tell you
anything else at this point, my mouth is
dry and honesty is lodged in my throat. I
can feel your heartbeat match my broken
one. How do I say that we have the same
flaws, yet I hate mine and love yours? How
do I say that in kissing all of your scars, I
have let my own wounds finally heal?
How do I say that in adoring you, I have
forgiven myself?