It’s Going to Be Okay

There are times when she would stand in front of the shower, just as she did as a little girl, and let the warm streams massage her shoulders. She would feel the water kiss the arch of her neck, the length of her spine, trickling down her torso until the water turns cold, until her fingers preferably prune. She closes her eyes to the splashes and floods, relaxing to the warmth and solitude of it all—her little safe haven, she calls it, her sense of complete peace. And then she would imagine someone standing there before her as her arms hug her chest for comfort, for secret validation. They would admire her flesh and soul, taking in all her lumps, dents, and folds of every season, commending how her damp curly hair flows in all perfection, beautifully down her breasts. Their arms would then circle around her body in an embrace, engulfing her, accepting her, loving her. And she would fall instantly without delay, never wanting to let go.

“Shh…,” they hush while kneading her back, kissing her skin. “It’s going to be okay.”

It’s going to be okay.

There are times when she would sit on a log in front of the ocean, just as she did when she was a bit younger, and let the warm breeze soothe her ache. She would walk up and feel the water kiss her toes, caress her feet, the waves stroking her ankles until the water is warm, until her toes preferably prune. She closes her eyes to the splashes and ripples, relaxing to the warmth and solitude of it all—her little safe haven, she calls it, her sense of complete peace. And then she would imagine someone standing there beside her as her hands rest against the log for comfort, for secret validation. They would admire her flesh and soul, taking in all her scars, chips, and bumps of every season, commending how her long curly hair flows in all perfection, beautifully down her shoulders. Their arms would then circle around her body in an embrace from behind her, engulfing her, accepting her, loving her. And she would fall instantly without delay, never wanting to let go.

“Shh…,” they hush while holding her hands, kissing her cheek. “It’s going to be okay.”

It’s going to be okay.

But there are times when she didn’t.

There are times when she would sit in her childhood bedroom in front of a tapestry, just as she never did as a child, and let the calm scenery caress her anxiety. She would feel her weighted blanket kiss the length of her legs, soften her spine, the beads sinking her body into the mattress until the sheets are warm, until nothing preferably prunes. Her eyes open to the dripping sounds of the diffuser, relaxing to the warmth and solitude of it all—her little safe haven, she calls it, her sense of complete peace. And she wouldn’t imagine someone standing there in front of her, beside her, with her, or even near her as her arms tap against the keyboard for comfort, for secret validation. She would admire her own flesh and soul, taking in all her lumps, scars, dents, chips, folds, and bumps of every season, commending how her messy curly hair stays up in a bun in all perfection, strands falling beautifully down her ears. No arms would then circle around her body in an embrace, engulfing her, because she’s already accepting herself, finally loving herself.

And she would fall instantly in love without delay, never wanting to let herself go.

“Shh…,” she hushes her mind while turning off the lights, pulling her blanket to herself. “It’s going to be okay.”

It’s going to be okay.

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