Through your eyes.

 

When I looked at you, I could see your soul through your eyes. And I could see, even for a split second, who you used to be. I could also see the parts of you that were broken by someone that it wasn’t me, all shattered into tiny pieces that were all scattered around what’s left of your soul. And that’s when I knew, that for as much as the old me would’ve wanted and tried hard to put those pieces altogether and tried to understand you, that the new me could never do it. Because of you, but mostly because of me. The healer in me would’ve tried and died a little more inside, so that she could just understand a little more of others. But that’s exactly how it goes: we try to understand, to reason within, to heal and to give love to what’s broken, because we truly believe that what’s broken can be repaired and that we have more than enough love and care to make it happen. But the way it goes it’s way too different, because what happens in the end is that we, the healers, get so drained by others, our light gets taken away from us, our love gets sucked, and we lose our spark, the very thing that makes us special, and end up more broken than who we were trying to fix.

We end up acting as a sponge that has a filter, we absorb and filtrate. And then, we get drained. And that, that’s how we become poets, writers and fools.

Even though, for the same split second that I saw your soul, there was a split second where I wished I was still the healer. Because that meant that even for a little, somewhere down the road, I could have you. Or at least a fragment of you. And to imagine that… oh, to imagine that… to imagine that is a dangerous thing, because it means that there was a part of me for as small as it is, that wished I could do all the hard-dirty work, even if it meant that it broke me, just to have a little bit of love. But, that’s not entirely true, because the grown woman in me knows that it wouldn’t be love. That would be poison.

-scmm