Gentle Thorns

A good thing after a bad thing,

I squint my eyes,

I replay the past,

Suspicious.

Open. Closed. Open. Closed.

No such thing as a bad thing, only lessons

and the rawness of being human.

A broken world.

Beautiful.

In all its mess.

But wasn't it a bad thing?

It hurt.

It broke things I can never fix.

No, still not a bad thing-

because didn't it make me who I am?

So it was meant to be that way,

or was I too naive to see it for what it was from the beginning?

When something gentle finds me now,

I look for the knife.

I put up the gate and suffocate the key.

I bury the joy and rip apart the curious whisper

"what if it's good?"

When someone says

I love you,

I turn my heart to stone

and prepare for them to leave.

LET THEM IN.

LET LOVE IN.

LET THE HEART BREATHE.

Tug of war.

Joy to sorrow,

so fast

I barley feel either,

I land in the middle

with my head between my hands,

tears of confusion.

When joy walks in,

I pretend the seat is taken.

OPEN THE SEAT.

I question its intentions.

How long will it stay?

I learned to leave my own body

without going anywhere.

To hold my breath

through entire seasons.

But a hand reaches toward me now,

telling me to come back.

To see

the beautiful things

everywhere.

People who have stayed.

Hands that hold.

Blessings without thorns.

A life I prayed for,

and still can't quite accept.

Sometimes I drown

in the middle of all the goodness

and think,

Surely this is not mine.

Surely this will be taken.

Surely they are lying.

I pray against that voice.

Hearing something

doesn't always make it true,

and feelings can trick you.

I close my eyes.

Open.

They are still here.

The door has not been slammed.

My heart is learning:

Not everything beautiful

is a warning.

Some hands truly are gentle.

Some love really does stay.

Some doors don't require you to race through.

They will stay open

long enough

for you to stop standing

outside afraid.

Some doors are patient.

So maybe healing,

is not becoming someone

who never fears

the loss of beautiful things.

Maybe it is letting

the blessing remain a blessing

without preparing

for its funeral.

Maybe it is holding them

with trembling hands

and still saying,

thank you.

Maybe faith is not t

he absence of the voice

that says,

this cannot be real.

Instead it is answering it:

I know.

I know what has been taken.

I know what has been lost.

I know what it is to live without love,

as a shell.

But look,

I am here.

Look,

God has given me something beautiful.

And this time,

I will not destroy the blessing

trying to protect myself

from losing it.