~break for brief letterlike thing~

music: birds outside... what a concept

Bridget--
You know, it beats the hell out of me. Love is kind of like a piece of broken glass--it'll slice your hand before you know it, but in the right light it reflects things at you in a way you didn't see before, and it shines along its jagged edges. And when you cut yourself it stays in the wound, little fragments that jolt you when you try to hold something too tightly.
Why do we stay? Maybe because we want to feel loved and worthy, special at a simpler level than what we can do or who we know or anything like that. Because it's easier to believe in yourself when you think someone else believes in you. Because if you can make yourself think that what you have is special, then you don't have to prove anything to anyone. Because, god, trust and warmth and the circle of someone's arms are so nice, who'd want to give that up?
And sometimes, I think, we forget that we can't know if it's the last time it'll ever happen.
Or that friendship can be every bit as sweet, if we tend it carefully.
And, really, who can resist how pretty a broken glass looks, just waiting to be picked up and put back together?

(Sorry if this sounded a little bitter, or preachy, or whatever. Ironically enough, this was originally what I was going to post, a few minutes before I started writing this:
Every so often I stop and think, how many people do I know who I would willingly allow to touch my throat? The list isn't long, but it's proof that my heart still works and trusts.
...I think that's everybody's cue to go out for ice cream.)