Sarah

I am crossing the bridges. I am burning them down — rising from the ashes, pure and cleansed like a new born emerging.

It is not an easy task: sometimes my fingertips catch the flames and get charred, sometimes the smoke sneaks its way into my eyes and sting — a sharp pain that provides the promise of hurt. I am left with singed skin and seared knees, palms that scream no but a head that says yes. Yes. A thousand times yes.

The edges are clearer. The lines are finer. There are no longer blurred smudges where your name should be. My eyes once watered and some day they will again but for now they are dry — and that is enough.