It started by sifting through old journals. The annual examination of my pincushion of a heart that is. First things first: check for a pulse. With slight surprise and major relief, we're in business people.
Now to assess the surface wounds. The bruises. More appropriately titled: the cheap shots. Though painful when first received, they are on their way to a rapid recovery. Their delivery came from clumsy hands that never stood a chance at their target.
Time to stop the bleeding. New cuts. New love. Old routines. A slim needle pins the area doing it's best to disguise closure. Sew them quickly. Tie them tightly. Now check to see where the brick red trail leads and pray that it's not back to that place that seems to repeatedly seep.
The Scars. The cemetery of the heart. Proceed with caution when revisiting these young or wrinkled graves. Check your bare feet for any sign of new blood, it is what these old trails thirst for most. One drop is capable of birthing new hurt into the discolored tissue of these wounds. Instead enter with clean hands and gather the flowers of strength that escape their cracks. It was your courage that put them to rest and in turn planted new life. Leave with a bouquet that is petaled with accomplishment and stemmed by hope.
I've made the rounds. Now time to close shop. I'll lock the gates of the past and refuse to leave until I find the exit door that is stained beautifully with the word future. I will hang my keys here and step out to the dangerously promising bleeding beat of my own heart.
