one time when we visited family in michigan, my mom and aunt went out to get ingredients for cake. when they got back, they had two dozen eggs. the recipe calls for five. my aunt explained, saying she and mom were talking, laughing, having a good time, and they missed the cart and dropped the egg carton onto the floor. they splattered inwardly. the yoke didn't spill onto the floor. the mess was inside, visible only when the carton was opened. i realised that's who we are. layered, delicate, like the carton. like eggshells. the first is pliable. tangible. the second is thin. like dark, rotton ice during a thaw. used, trampled on, like a small bed of flowers. to make a long story short, we've all been damaged. we've all been cracked; we've all bled. maybe we haven't stopped. and sometimes we don't show our pain. when looking at others, we can't see it at first. so we have to peel back gently, layer by later. or we have to completely crack the egg wide open. point is, we all get cuts, scars. we all get hurt. but we don't have to hold it in. sometimes, it's okay to let the scars show. let it go. scream, punch the wall. tell someone about it. let the tears stream down your face as if you lost something you could not replace (coldplay). sometimes vulnerability can save you. wash the wounds and let them heal, don't reopen them. they'll only cut deeper. let the tears fall like a sudden rainstorm: relentless, without restrain. and sometimes, especially in the spring, rain will make the flowers grow (les miserables).
-kiss kiss kiss, and you will keep me safe-