You smell of fragility
And what does fragility smell like except,
The naked body longing for clothing,
Or the pomegranate of heart bursting and ripe,
Fists, lowered into open palms.
I smell you because I have lived with the perfume,
I know it is as tender as incense stick ashes,
Unforgiving of yourself for the smallest of mistakes,
Chipped tea cups cutting your lip.
I’m finding it hard to keep writing now. This past week, I put brakes on myself.
My aim is to share parts of me, small parts as I coax myself into believing it is ok, some people may need to read some of my words, my thoughts, my heart. But now the weight of burden rests heavy on me.
I am feeling guilty for feelings being aroused in some people that illicit hurt, pain or remind them of suffering, vulnerability or fragility.
In the conundrum therefore I am, of deciding whether or not I keep sharing at the expense of hurting people in the process of identifying sensitivities in myself or to stop sharing and keep writing to myself only, perhaps one day mustering the courage to see if anything I write may be worthy of a wider readership.
But I apologise in advance if for whatever reason I made you hurt, suffer or cry.
It was never my intention to purposefully hurt.