There are no words to express this pain.
They touch the surface of it;
Graze and glance off.
“It’s not fair,” is the childish refrain
That strikes my heart,
Tries to open it,
And squeeze inside.
Thin, metallic fingers, like tiny ribs,
Have grown around,
Interlocking to keep out the fragments that carry shame.
But there is space enough for the small one
To make that cut
And push into the soft folds,
Wriggling and squirming,
Panting,
Resting,
And doing it all again
Until it collapses into the warmth and love
That expands and melts those icy cold fingers
That drip into pools
That become vapour and,
In a rush of pleasure,
Are released in one deep breath.
That tension as air rushes in
And collects the tiny droplets,
Filling and mingling in the ever growing space,
Ever growing,
Slowly,
Slowly,
Until full and then…
WHOOSH!
Out through warm nostrils.
Back in the heart the child part lays on the soft, warm floor that gently pulsates
And thin, red tendrils emerge from the walls,
Snaking their way to stroke, to kiss, to make it better.
Gently,
Gently,
They soothe the child and the child opens to receive love
And that love is better than anything they’ve known.
They can let go.
They can become.
They can be who they are.
This is true freedom with no apology.