This essay was originally written in May 2016.
Her nails dig trenches in her palm, unknowingly, deepening the raw red soil of roughened skin.
She is a warzone.
Fly by from far above—a facade of peace—a copacetic existence within herself and the bordering beings. Descend, break through the stratospheres, and enter at your own risk. When it rains, it pours. Her explosions will rock you, but never as much as they shatter her.
Every staggered breath threatens to suffocate, to fill up her lungs with mushroom-cloud smoke, dark and devastating. Heaving earthquakes rumble the mountains of her shoulders, the epicenter radiating aftershocks that reverberate through every last limb, extremity, particle. Bitter salt rivers carve pathways on the contours of her face, transforming into waterfalls that are only intermittently halted with her palms, those raw trenches absorbing the tears.
She is a warzone.
Amidst the bombardment, she offers a final exhalation, a white flag of defeat.
He—an enemy? A lover turned foe? Faux? He accepts her olive branch. Solid arms engulf her, and she drowns in them. Sometimes it’s better to surrender, if only for a moment.
No one can be strong forever.
He wipes her tears and presses rosebud lips upon her forehead with a tenderness she hasn’t ever seen from him. Is this what it finally feels like to be cared for? To feel loved? How funny that in the lowest, darkest moments, a sliver of light always shines through. It is a feeble flame, capable of growth if nourished appropriately by all those involved, by her and him, together. It is a hope. A hope of healing.
She calms; a ceasefire slows the widespread panic coursing through her veins. She leans into him, heady with the familiar scent, and memories rush back, triggered. They could make this work! Rough patches are meant to be weathered, and she and him are fighters. After all, their relationship has been sailing turbulent waters for a while now, but winds die down eventually. Don’t they? False positives strive to convince her so.
However, “eventually” is a time that never clocks in, and it is too late. Latent desires and what-ifs are powerful temptresses, yet she’s a seasoned warrior, and this is not her first battle. Logic and purpose kick in, and the barricades are reconstructed again. He isn’t going to be able to knock them down once more, not this time. Opening up territories only leaves them vulnerable, and she is stronger than that.
Cooly collecting composure, her gaze ventures up to his, and both pairs of eyes acknowledge a placid surrender. On her way out, they exchange pleasantries, facades of peace. Inside, the war rages on.