Coffee Talk

I looked her in the eye that evening and spoke some of the only truly honest words she'd ever hear out of me. This time, there was no intricate detail I'd thrown aside and no implication curved out of the corners of my mouth. I was ten times smaller than her for that instant. I slowly crumbled into the remnants of blueberry scone that had fallen from her lips moments before. She didn't notice it then, like I doubt she noticed me all over again. She wasn't staring at a body across the table anymore, but a soul: save of expanding lungs and that void in my right eyebrow, of scars.

The words had escaped me: "I am not a strong enough person to throw my cards in and settle for a polite handshake and coffee talk for the rest of my life."

Oh, and of course she told me that I was wrong, and that I was the strongest person she knew. Of course she jabbed at my ribs and reminded me that I can hold my breath until every last molecule of oxygen inside me has been robbed of all its worth. She brushed her fingertips along the scar underneath that faulty eyebrow and quietly requested to hear the story behind it again. She remembered hearing about glass, she whispered. There were so many things I wanted to whisper back.

I left her at that table and frankly, I wanted to believe that I'd made some huge mistake and being a survivalist really was the ultimate test of self-empowerment. It wasn't a matter of weakness, I told myself, if I continuously held that lighter to my face, or even just kept fighting like the senseless warrior I had became. I, after all, am a survivalist.

She'd know strength if she would stop looking for it in every action I take, or lack thereof.

I'd know strength if justice meant nothing and happiness meant everything.