The Doorway

I let the pillows of my cheeks rest in my palms,

and soon I am cradling the softness of myself. 

Oh, my love, why don’t I hold you more often?

Why don’t I jump to your aid,

when you show the first whispers of discontentment?

Like I would a baby.

Like I would someone I love. 

But I love you, I promise! 

There is just so much that has held me back from tending to

The swirliness of yourself, myself. 

There has been so many versions of me

I thought I was or had to be. 

Each one stretching me further from 

the truth,

from you.

Do I want to let my mascara run down my cheeks?

Silly questions like these,

Holding me back.

Or, less silly, what if this isn’t what I want?

What if I have let myself down,

time and time again?

Each one is a doorway, 

Leading me to the light of myself.

But that means I have to step out the room

that I thought was keeping me safe.

Chained up,

at least predictable, secure. 

Dare I say comforting?

The things that have hurt me the most 

gave me the most comfort, 

for a bit.

Yes, breaking out of this room, 

I have freedom.

But there is no guarantee,

No comfort,

No security,

No predictability.

Only whispers of blind hope,

Coming from the doorway. 

“I am here,” she says.