Believing in the promise of a scar.

Yes, I want to cry, to grieve for a connection I thought existed. Instead, I want to scream. Yell, about the promise of staying, of continuing to be connected. A gap, between the reality and the promise, between what was verbally offered, to what is actually put in practice.

When a wound is continually reopened it stops hurting and just becomes numb.

I am numb. From forgetting what is possible. Numb from salt being rubbed into a wound. A cut so old I can’t remember the first time a promise was broken. A wound so deep the scar will survive my last breath. A wound I was born with.

Yet, as the tears flow, as the numbness slows my breath, I move one foot, then the other. Feeling the ground. Relying on the earth to maintain my heartbeat. Acknowledging my feet are still grounded. Recognizing my risk in believing love is worth bleeding my imperfections. Yes to risking injury for love. Without a doubt, love is worth the scar, the wound, the numbness.

Yes, to touching the scar with gratitude, smiling, for the belief that will survive. Yes, for the experience of joy before the reopening of the wound. Yes to the reopening of the cut. Yes to the parts of me yet uninjured, and the possibility of the potential for their injury. Yes, to the adventure of love, at all cost.

I am not the first. Love, loss, wounds, joy, tears, have existed before the spoken word and will be experienced after the last great invention.

What would it take for me to give up on love? Numbness so deep my heart would implode. A promise so sacred breaking it would disintegrate my soul. A scar so pervasive nothing could be salvaged. Believing in the wound rather than the promise created by the scar, means giving up on love.

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