Sometimes, in order to stretch the boundaries of who I am, I give myself a mission. I force myself to write a poem about some subject in order to see what I really think about it. Or I try to write an essay.
Several weeks back, I assigned myself such a task. Having written about death and fear, pain and struggle, I needed to write something about love…no matter how much it hurts me to do so.
It is not an easy subject for me. I have experience to draw upon. Love hurts. Or can do so.
Maybe I think I know love when I see it. Or maybe I’m just full of it.
Each time I seek to grasp for the words I wish to say, memories of times past, fears of rejection and its actuality, push them out of my reach. Pain is remembered. Mental scabs are picked at.