Because you gave me life, it sometimes feels like I'm suffocating when you are far away. Because you sung me to sleep, other voices sound like harmony--no matter how moving their tone; and your voice is the melody--no matter how dissonant your tone.
So how...how do I leave this hospital? How do I walk away from the one who taught me how to crawl? How can I stop loving someone who never--not for one moment--stopped loving me?
But as I lay here (fetal, yet adult in name; loved, yet so unsure of how to love back without accepting the conditions), I see your face. The sweat beads flowing from your pores, ridding your body of the toxins known as denial and control. The eyes, registering data about men and women and relationships through a pupil of pure religion, dilated with distrust and fatigue.
I curse myself for removing the gown from your body and for clothing mine with it. And I feel the weight of it. I feel the weight of shame cramp my shoulders. I have willingly made your perception my reality.
Suddenly: the truth hits. I do not have to wear this anymore. Instead, I can lock the two of us in this room, forcing myself to interact, to relate to you in healthier, novel ways.
Dear womb which birthed me:
- I would rather love you in hope than lose you now.
- I would rather love you for who you are than hate you for not being who I want you to be.
- I would rather love you than walk away.
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