The wound comes thick and fast. Down the phone lines, through the screen - in my eyes, the words I’m saying and not saying. We dance with my wound - it opens, gapes, lets out it’s sore, sticky ooze in a place it does not belong to:
You.
I have located my wound with you, and that is my big mistake.
How could you have possibility been there all those lifetimes ago? Hurting me in the boyhood places? Invading my boundaries and then abandoning me over and over again?
It wasn’t you, was never you - though you may be the occasion, you are never the cause. The wounded, wounding the other - Christ was called the wounded healer and my Kairon moon is pulling all the ghastly sores to the surface - it’s ugly, it’s hurtful, and it splatters all over you dear……. I am sorry.
I cannot see what I am blind to - cannot know what is going on when my system is primed to automate in a particular way when it is awoken.
You deserve better.
You deserve love without these cuts, breaks and pain.
Will we transcend this?
You’ve held the faith, I have hope, but what is unutterably clear is our love.
I called my mother today to say I have work to do. She seems to understand and books a time with me - the place where this work actually belongs.