the saying goes that love is a many splendored thing,
the fine print though is that it entirely depends on the person dispensing said love
there are those who seek to be air,
breathing life and laughter so deep that you have no choice but to grow, to fly
there are also those who seek to be splinters,
slashing you just a little bit with words, actions, dismissals, doubts
some of us have grown so accustomed to the consistency of the pain that all we do is quickly acknowledge it and move right along
paying no mind to the number of scars that have accumulated
bearing no witness to the need for change
until it is too late
until those splinters – with every tug, every rip – change the very fabric of who we are
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