I can't fly. hurricane: You don't see how I cry myself into a dreamless sleep every night, or how I have to take powerful sedatives to achieve any sense of normality in my life. You don't see me wander through the day like a zombie. You don't see the bloody knife I keep in my nightstand. Just a little cut, a pinprick to help me remember how to feel. You don't see how barren and desolate my life is without you.
No. I paint a picture of beauty, of passion, of grace, of hope for you and all the world to see. But it's all a facade of the reality of my life to hide the scars of my past. I hide my true self from you. I am not an eloquent writer, an articulate speaker, or some gifted artist. I am a fraud in many respects, not because I do not speak truths, but because I hide what I have become behind what I once was.
I am not the great savior of your heart, I can't even rescue myself. I am afraid you see me as your salvation, a great phoenix rising from the ashes of a bad marriage, ready to take you away from everything. But in reality, I can't fly: I never really could. I just throw my arms out as I fall.
And yet, with your love, I could soar.
