I used to think that the place there was the most love was the one where I felt safe lashing out, throwing fits, taking my anger out, and then turning around and apologizing when I was done. I have a hard time accepting that I thought that’s what love was but then I remind myself that in so many ways, that’s what I was raised thinking love was – being hurt but staying despite that because we know deep down that they care.
Now, I think the place there’s the most love is the place that I never want to destroy. I never let my anger become the fuel for my mouth. I know the damage it can do and that turning around and apologizing, excusing myself, doesn’t heal the wound. I find the most love when I’m not erupting but pausing to understand – others, myself, my anger. I find the most love when I’m able to face the things that trigger me and instead of pointing fingers, and telling them to stop, I look in the mirror and ask what I keep seeing reflected back that has me so hurt. The place with the most love is the place where you commit to discontinuing the hand-me-down hurt you’ve been given your whole life.
Escape Artist
You didn’t tell me before I strapped handcuffs around your wrists
that you’re an escape artist.
You didn’t show me, let on to your skill set, as I tease your dick.
No mention, no hint at this.
There’s importance to a good strategy, never show your full hand
but that’s only in games.
I was angry, felt betrayed as you started to escape. Wondered what I did
anytime you went away.
I’ve been doing it too, I slip off into my head, escaping reality,
finding a dream world instead.
I’m sorry for my anger, it was covering shame, worry, doubt,
I was casting out blame.
We’re all escape artists, magicians of sorts, finding our balance
in dark and light worlds.
Much love, until next time.
Madeline May I... 