I remember the night I warned myself of a perpetually drowning truth, and aimlessly attempted to abandon the little girl inside. I strum again the painful hearstrings of a catalyst, and re-read my list of the hundreds of reasons my marriage could not work and the hundreds of reasons it should have. I remember the day I was a she-wolf, leading her pack, accepting no shouts against my own mastery, and the day I admitted I am not my mother's daughter. And all those pained, passionate, strong, and hungry words, wound together in a tight dream catcher of protection, have not kept away the pain of night.
And I wish that all I could imagine, and I wish that all I could hope for could someday be stronger than all I have lost, all I have loved in vain, all I have given away and all whom I miss. Because while I am a master of words, a teller or tales, a giver of hope, and a translator of pain, I still cannot protect my own heart.