If I were to bury my past, it is mine to bury.
I buried my wounds long ago, in fear that they would ever hurt again, and I dared not look upon its eyes, for every time I meet its tantalizing gaze I felt I would lose a piece of myself, and I would never find my way back to who I was again.
For years I buried my past in those silent fields, tried to dream it away with my anger, trying to keep it outside of my perfectly peaceful world, trying to keep the little balance that I had from toppling. Each day I would walk by that little patch of earth, expecting to see something disgusting and rotten,
and very often I did,
I saw a blackness so soiled and burned that I was afraid I would never unsee the devastating sight of destruction.
But as each day went on, and I walked by, I noticed it less and less,
the darkness I buried disintegrated
from the gentle coaxing of the sun and promise of spring
until one day I walked by I saw that
the past has been dug,
the earth that absorbed its venom was no longer an ominous shade of black,
and I noticed that my heart was pure all along,
and that my worst of me was
and still is
the best of me.
I looked upon the flower that grew out of the seed of heartache and chaos,
and I knew those flowers were fragile and
though not ready for picking,
I bent down and lowered myself to meet its gaze,
to whisper to its tiny body,
to tell myself that
I love you
more than the world
more than the stars in the galaxy
more than all your dreams and wishes combined
more than your fiercest desires and most fervent hopes
more than you will ever