I can count them on the fingers of one hand, not using all my fingers even. The people who have broken my heart. It is such an exhilirating, wonderful, excrutiatingly scary place, that one where you offer your heart, in all it's squelchiness to somebody. I don't regret doing it, but I need to forgive those who threw it back to me battered and beaten and, somehow, smaller.
Nobody did it on purpose, I'm lucky not to have entrusted my heart to anybody who'd do that and, I guess, that makes it slightly more easy to forgive. I said slightly. The wounds from those batterings and beatings last, they seep, they get scabs, the scabs drop off, but they leave scars.
Miranda did a beautiful post on scars, I hope she doesn't mind me linking. I suppose it's the scars that make us whole, beautifully imperfect, and that's why I need to forgive those who gave me mine, they've made me who I am. If only it didn't hurt so. Still.
World Penguin Day
1 day ago