I think it’s cold, but I can’t say for sure. It’s been a while since I’ve set foot outside of my house. I don’t know how I come across, either.
I’m wearing a clean white dress. I remember when I bought it, and it hung off my frame like a curtain. It was the only thing that fit me. Now, the fabric hugs the soft curves of my healthy body, a badge of pride.
It’s knee-length, brushing the frail joints of my legs as I steadily walk away from my safe space. It exposes my arms to the morning chill, and the wind caresses my bare skin. I’m focusing on the small sensations, the underappreciated things that I haven’t felt in months.
There’s dew on my arms now free of gauze, there’s cold on my neck now free of the brace, there’s wind on my legs now free of oversized jeans.
When was the last time I wore a dress? When was the last time I was able to pull back my sleeves? When was the last time there was anything but skin and bone to show the world?
There’s nothing in the way now. All that the world can see now are thin scars criss-crossing each other and a faint ring of bruises around my neck, courtesy of the rope.
Battle scars. None fresh, none still bleeding, none ready to break open. I’m walking alone, and there’s a smile on my face. It isn’t forced. It isn’t there for the people busily walking past, paying me no attention anyway. I’m wearing it only for me. It’s the product of a lot of pain, and a lot of work, and a lot of time, and a lot of forced smiles.
Looking up at the pearl grey sky now, I’m finding that its history only makes it that much more real.
I look back ahead to see the figure standing there, with wide open arms and a knowing smile:
Hope.
I’m wearing a clean white dress. I remember when I bought it, and it hung off my frame like a curtain. It was the only thing that fit me. Now, the fabric hugs the soft curves of my healthy body, a badge of pride.
It’s knee-length, brushing the frail joints of my legs as I steadily walk away from my safe space. It exposes my arms to the morning chill, and the wind caresses my bare skin. I’m focusing on the small sensations, the underappreciated things that I haven’t felt in months.
There’s dew on my arms now free of gauze, there’s cold on my neck now free of the brace, there’s wind on my legs now free of oversized jeans.
When was the last time I wore a dress? When was the last time I was able to pull back my sleeves? When was the last time there was anything but skin and bone to show the world?
There’s nothing in the way now. All that the world can see now are thin scars criss-crossing each other and a faint ring of bruises around my neck, courtesy of the rope.
Battle scars. None fresh, none still bleeding, none ready to break open. I’m walking alone, and there’s a smile on my face. It isn’t forced. It isn’t there for the people busily walking past, paying me no attention anyway. I’m wearing it only for me. It’s the product of a lot of pain, and a lot of work, and a lot of time, and a lot of forced smiles.
Looking up at the pearl grey sky now, I’m finding that its history only makes it that much more real.
I look back ahead to see the figure standing there, with wide open arms and a knowing smile:
Hope.