I wasn’t ready to love you.

Truth be told, I wasn’t ready for you to be born.

It was like I knew meeting you would mean meeting me,

could imagine only negative qualities.

Ones crafted from vignettes of an angsty teen who promised she wouldn’t be less than sweet.

Who grew up to be only sweet,

but is always remembered more harshly.

The shard of glass,

not the mirror’s reflection.

That’s how I prepared for you,

as if I was edging past a sharp point,

swerving carefully into avoidance.

Truth be told,

I love you more than anyone.

I trust you more than I trust anything.

I asked you if you knew how you got that cut in your knee,

and you answered,

I can’t remember how it got there, I just can feel it.

I listened as you formed a meaning you knew I’d understand,

and I did.

I wasn’t ready to love you.

This time of year that memory stops my heart,

and freezes me in time,

and inserts pieces that weren’t given to me whole.

I know what they’ll be.

I know I won’t crush them further.

I know ready is a statement of timing.

And I know how this feels.

As shards.

As my reflection.

As my greatest love.

--

--

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.

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Amanda Lindamood

Amanda Lindamood

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.

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