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The words, the violence, the ugliness, the fear, the sadness, the hurt—all that will continue to make a home inside us, even if we relegate it to the attic, and it lives cramped among the cobwebs, emerging sometimes in our sleep or causing chaos in our waking lives, an invisible hand pulling the strings, a shadow at the corners of our eyes.
We sit here, our faces swollen, covered in scrapes and bruises, wounds that will heal but won’t disappear. But I think we’re beautiful now, wearing the evidence of our pain. No one can deny it exists.
because I know now that my heart is a soft thing. What’s the point in pretending it isn’t?
