she thought about things

She wasn't a fan of pain. Not really, anyhow. But she migrated to it every once in a while. Like a carribean vacation. Only without the sun.

She didn't love the past. It hurt with it's knots and twists. She left it miles and miles away.

The tangled mess didn't undo itself. The knots got tighter. Cords frayed.

So she went back. With dark glasses. She thought she could unravel the largest knot.

When she first arrived, she heard deep, cavernous sounds. Echos of nothing. Birds and trees didn't live here. Just darkness. And her jagged breath with sharp edges.

She tripped. And didn't get up. She could have. But she didn't. Being crazy made her tired.

The hours stopped, so did the years. There she lay in her past. Sometimes she heard footprints. And then nothing. She was used to the sounds of nothing.

Her skin had grown thick. The sharp edges only felt like pricks.

One day, she caught a glimmer of light through the bramble. Her memory was buried. It hurt too much to look. Did she even have eyes anymore?

She heard sounds. She thought of other things.

She felt the edges begin to prick. Just a bit. She'd felt worse.

She felt warmth. Then realized that she had begun to bleed. She wasn't squeamish anymore.

Still, the choice. Remain in the darkness and bleed a long slow death. Or stand up. And live.

Her head was pounding. Her stomach lurched. She hadn't eaten in years. Sharp edges had become her sustenance. Her comfort.

Little hands. A small voice.

The bleeding stopped. She didn't want to, but she got up. Sharp edges were everywhere. Something propelled her past them.

A young life. A new future. She had to look. Had to live. Had to heal.

People stared. Her scars were deep and painful. And visible to everyone. Shame followed her. Everywhere. She felt hideous.

No one understood. Not even her family. That was the knife wound.

Still, the young life. The blonde voice. Please, just stop.

The scars hurt. She healed slowly. And badly. She bled often. But not enough to make her lie down.

She had to live. Even when her past found her. It tried to kick her down. With images. And wickedness. Songs of remembrance. It was too much.

But still, her memories came with a soft voice. Please, just stop.

Instead, she stopped. Opened her hands. Pursed her lips. And pulled it all down. Every betrayal. Every untruth. Every misunderstanding. All of it.

Voices of love. Voices of young hearts.

Survival.

Masochism.

Rejection.

Abuse.

Abandonment.

She looked it square in the face. She remembered. All of it. She couldn't love it. But she didn't make it leave. Instead, it became small.

It couldn't stand to be stared at.

Was that the trick the entire time? In the land of sharp edges.

Some didn't believe her. Or her past. She didn't care. They were her tattered pages to tear up. It was her truth.

Sometimes she involved others. And sometimes, she regretted.

Sometimes, it was the best thing she ever did.

A boy with drums brought healing once. And truth. And some new pain.

But it was necessary.

She had to look at betrayal. With her sharp teeth and malicious lies and hatred.

Yet, she came from betrayal. She had to embrace her with boundaries.

The young life. The small voice. A new smile.

New thoughts. Possibilities. Flowers instead of sharp edges.

Pain? Yes. Devastating and life-altering? No.

She needed to pay attention to the young life. She had shoulders now that could carry her. And give the small voice a microphone with big feet.

She would love it and give it something she never had.

Hope. For a future. And the promise of different days than she had known.

She still has dark glasses. The little voice doesn't like them. So she only wears them once in a while.

The little voice often shrieks at the top of her lungs. And no one yells. Her young life stares wide-eyed at everything. And knows nothing of dark things.

The young life saved her. Hugged her. Delivered her. Softened sharp edges.

And somewhere in her world, this all makes sense.

Because her past is beautiful.