You're always wary of the places you died

(written December 2, 2006)

You practice caution when entering a situation or place where you once died. Or where you were once happy but the happiness has been replaced.

You walk up the stairs differently, look at the walls like a foreigner.

You stare out of the window at a lake that doesn't change and remember how you changed. You look up at a tree and remember writing about light. You hold a friend while she talks incoherently and bleeds from cuts on her legs and you think about a turkey you both nursed through the night, only to cook it together the next morning.

You lay next to another person and when they put their arms around you like nothing has changed you try to convince youself that nothing has. You try to act like you're okay with being touched when you want them to take it back, to take back time and acts and places and faces.

Or you sit on the couch next to a man you thought you loved and wonder how you ever thought you really knew him. And it makes you wary.

The growing I've done, it has hurt. But I'd rather grow than stand still. I'd rather die a thousand times than be standing in the face of the first big hurt.

Have you ever held a little baby and had everyone in the room think how natural you look with that baby, and know that they're all feeling sorry for you. That they all think that should be your baby. That you should be the one married and pregnant and perfect?

The places you die. They're the places you live the most. And they're shadows of memory. And a hot tear like blood, dripping onto the floor.

The places I've died.

Can you handle this much hurt? Can you deal with this much damage?

Can you hold me without holding all my memories?

Neither can I.