Breaking starts slow. There’s a tiny cracking in your foundation, and over time it stretches across the surface of you. First it’s in your voice, in the way you speak. Then your hands, and how you clasp them tight instead of open them, place them behind your back in tender nervousness. From your hands the violate travels to your chest, constructing the pieces unravel, the pain seep deep within you.
You learn this breaking, create a home for it around your tired heart. You become comfortable with the heaviness, let it lay on your back and move you to the ground, let it become your identity until you no longer recollect who you were before.
You start to see yourself as unworthy, focus on the negative first. You let the break to circle around and through you, build crannies in your foundation that cannot be easily repaired.
You focus on all that you’ve lost, all that you no longer have, or are. You let your heart lay open and bleeding. You forget how it feels to be whole.
Your days slip slowly, endlessly into one another. The ones you love try to pulling you out, but you’re stubborn and afraid. You inter yourself within the pain, find convenience in the fissures until you’re unrecognizable.
And then, the working day, you stare at your reflection in the mirror and realize you don’t want to live like this. You don’t want to be a bag of bones, heavy with the past. You don’t want to be dark-circled eyes, frail muscles, tired hands. You don’t want to be defined by the ones who left, by the spirits who couldn’t love you.
You set glue along the fissures, speaking love and hope into yourself. You close your eyes and breathe deeply; you recollect how you were before–before him, before her, before terminates, before the nights you were afraid to sleep alone.
You wrap yourself in hugs and gratitude, thankful for being, for breathing, for surviving this far. You set bandages over the bruises, take one step at a time, strolling forward, beginning again.
You focus on what’s next, what’s coming, rather than what’s behind. You listen to your hunch, your heart, which is still beating, even after all this time. You go forward. You believe in better days.
You begin to heal, but this process takes time, little one. It’s not supposed to be quick.
Every day you wake up and smile at your reflection, you put on clothes that you love, you think of something other than what he or she would be thinking, or whether he/ she is missing you. You stop circling your intellect over the breakup, over the mistake, over the failing that fills your past.
You heal–one piece, one fragment, one crack at a time–because you, because you deserve to.
But you are patient with yourself as you go. You take careful steps, intentional breaths, surround yourself with hearts that will construct yours, rather than destroy.
You become comfy in your own scalp, you learn to love the voice of your own voice, you appreciate your spirit and you begin to live for yourself–not anyone else.
You heal, but this takes time.
And yet, every moment spent is so worth it.
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