Vulnerability

When you look at my forehead, do you see it? My bright glow in the dark tattoo that screams my biggest weakness. Come closer, I dare you, it’s even in braille for those who need tactile confirmation. I am a gaping wound craving attention and when I receive it, I either drink it up like a strawberry milkshake (vegan 😉 ) at the Woolworth’s lunch counter, or I reject it with the ferocity of a toddler who doesn’t want the green cup. There is nothing in between. I am: VULNERABLE.

I’m vulnerable in the sense that I allow too many people into the cracks in my life. I was once told that there is a culture of people that repair the cracks in their pottery with gold. The purpose being to prove that even if something is broken, it’s still beautiful. My cracks are chasms, and often I allow venom into my wounds. It may seem like molten gold at first, but as time plays on, the filling causes more decay in the cavity than it does to repair it.

I am vulnerable. I trust hard, and easy. I believe in people who claim they want the best for me; often it’s the best they get from me. Glass shattered in a storm, I blame myself for opening up in search of guidance.

I am vulnerable. I allow the words of others to stain my soul like tattoos I never wanted.

I am vulnerable. I want to be saved, but I’ll never allow anyone the actual power to save me. I need to learn how to save myself. I need to be my own hero.

I am vulnerable. I open my wounds in hopes of salvation but often end up drenched in acid instead.

I am vulnerable. I often expect the people around me to have the same emotional capacity, and level of empathetic thinking that I demonstrate.

I am vulnerable, but I’m not weak.