Soft Side Sanctum

There is no cure for love
but to love more.

I found solace in hatred.
I wallowed in the pit of formidable wrath
for so long...
that looking hopeful was natural
but believing in hope,
was only between the pages,
of hardworn hardcovers.
I covered my heart with those pages,
writing each line into my memory,
making, normal, fantasy.
I needed to live in the divine.

Today,
I don't feel so  divine.
The pages have discolored and the appeal
isn't so great as it was when my heart was smaller
when my mind needed the sheer protection.
Today,
I feel like facing my cruelty.
my hatred,
my locked solid fortification,
that takes no responsibility for cause and effect.
And tomorrow,
I will listen at least as much as I confront,
because I remember when I was not heard.
I can hear the pained etchings when I shut people out
and the pain is mine to bear now, too.
I have to let that in to be real.

The novel pages aren't substantial enough anymore.

Tomorrow, and thereafter
I must experience the world with others
and accept that I am unique enough.
That it does not make me valid.
That I may be valid
simply  by my ability to
love and be loved.
Because, after all, that is the only real thing
that can be lived for