self_inflicted ovenbird You carried a scar on the inside of your left arm. Two parallel lines, raised by the red hot wheels of a lighter, flame fashioned into a weapon that you pressed to pale flesh, punishment for some unseen sin. Somewhere along the line you forgot how to feel without the prompt of pain made manifest. When my laughter, meant to land softly, was, instead, a javelin that ran you through, you worked to make it real. “Just stand outside,” you said and closed the door while I trembled in the hall. I heard the sound your fist made as it met the smirking mouth of something unyielding. Then silence. You let me in, your torn knuckles twisting the knob. As I cried you fell to your knees on the floor at my feet and told me you loved me. I was so afraid of the rage that lived inside you. So afraid of your drawer full of knives. So afraid that I would be the catalyst for your next self-inflicted wound. I almost told you it was too much to carry, but I loved you. I loved you, didn’t I? So instead, I held you until your shaking subsided. You promised you would never hurt me, and you never did, not with your hands. But I was always on edge. I never knew when you would choose the solace of a sword over the invitation of my arms. I learned how to stand in the storm of your unpredictability. And when you seemed steady enough on your own two feet I left. Two decades later you said, “You trusted me to survive, and I loved you for that.” And you did survive. And so did I. And now we hold gratitude for everything we taught each other. Even the things that were born in the dark. 260625 what's it to you? who go blather from