she, who packages her face and body and eye gaze neatly within the

confines of self

there, nothing and nobody can penetrate her

in her ultimate safety

wary, her downward gaze tells me, of getting attached again;

unsure of the longevity of it all

she doesn’t like loud voices

or suitcases

or tears

Pain is constant, yet each episode temporary

(I tell her)

Soon enough she will understand…

that each episode of her life is a finely crafted square of her

quilted self;

delicately stitched together to

create her

If she is at all like me, the toughest of pains will grow the largest and most beautiful of forces within her.

If she is at all like me, she will don her blinders of self-preservation until she is able to inhale fully, expand her diaphragm to capacity, and exhale with strength and resolve.

If she is at all like me, she will stumble and fall and roll and crawl as she aims for grace.

If she is at all like me…she will never give up.

 

 

 

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