I wish you could feel the texture of my silences and trace the scars of my pauses where the urge to speak ripped and tore knowing it was useless but begging to be heard

there’s a spot on the ceiling I know what it’s from but you don’t all I’m saying is I try not to focus on it to listen to what you’re saying you can talk to me the smooth white interrupted by this one  little spot of faded dusky pink so...

To outgrow any weakness, we have to first feel the pain and the embarrassment it brings.   We remember how it feels and we replay those awful images and we learn to coexist with nightmares.