It began with the eagerness of hope,
the longing, burning, raging need to reach
the unattainable—that gift which I
never thought I would call my own. There were
scars still, written across my arms like a
difficult stain—no matter how hard you
scrub, the remnants are still there, still a part
of you that will never completely fade.
Hope turned to despair, turned to loss, turned to
desperation. For a way out, a way
home. A face without a destination.
It is amazing: how durable the
human spirit can be, even when it
has been beaten, blown away, torn to shreds.
I lived, and I survived, and I faced what
I never thought I would. I faced my life.
I meet new faces, and I explore, and
I taste life in a way I never have,
Pay attention to its awful sweetness.
I fall in love, and I know it is real,
And I need, crave, beg for it to work out.
It doesn’t. not this time. I fall into
that despair again, let the glue melt off,
let the brokenness consume all of me.
But it is not like it was before, and
this time, with fragile strength, I pick myself
up again, glued together, some pieces
still missing but not incomplete, not close.
Time has gifted me this a peace of mind,
a knowledge that I can survive, can live
even with the remnants of pain, sorrow.
They exist but do not pull me under.
Time: days, weeks, months have
defined me, shaped me, made
me strong. There is pain,
but now it exists
with one defining trait:
hope. The circle is complete,
and again, I can live with hope.