I can breathe again after months of claustrophobic memories ruling my sleep. They're finally gone.
I am still me, but I'm different somehow. Wiser, perhaps. Maybe a little more safeguarded.
When I let myself be fragile to people who didn't mind hurting me, I had opened myself up for a battle of thorns.
I was growing a black rose garden in my chest, but I've somehow managed to paint them back to red again with forgiveness, watering them with acceptance.
I'm searching instead for kindness and understanding. I think I've seen it too, in a pair of deep brown eyes.
It's funny how you never see them coming.