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Today is the last day of this trip. I'm currently in Boston because I was asked to perform at the Massachusetts Poetry Festival. While I've had a marvelous time and the reading went spectacularly, I'm butting right up against this shard of glass and I need to talk about it. Those of you who are close to me know about my previous relationship with an abusive someone who is in large part why I live in Indianapolis. Don't get me wrong, everything that happened to bring me to Indy--even the horrible things--I'm actually so grateful for. I needed to be here. I wouldn't be able to reach for success in my own way, to carve out a path that is truly for me. But, because I lived with this person for nearly two years IN BOSTON, being on this trip has been tricky.

You know when you collect a sad story and then don't see your friends for a while and when you do, you have to just repeat and repeat and repeat the sad thing because everyone keeps wondering, "what's been up????" That's where I keep finding myself on this trip. The retelling bruises. The retelling of the bruise. This person hit me. Actually hit me in the face and gave me a black eye that didn't totally fade for over a month. God it feels good to write that. When I first left them--ran away--I tried to write about it, casually, indirectly, on twitter. This person contacted me and stressed that if the story proliferated, their career would be at stake. WELL I DON'T REALLY GIVE A FRICKING FUCK ABOUT THAT ANYMORE. I actually can't believe that I took down the tweets. They were silly excuses for my eye.

I walked into a penguin.

I got kicked by a pony.

I opened a pantry into my eye.

A mime accident.


They revealed nothing. But this post reveals everything.

I have grown a spine of knives. And I've learned a lot from this situation having spent the last year coping, and this trip purging. A few things I want to say, anyone who raises a hand to you doesn't cherish you. Someone who loves you can hit you. In fact, someone who loves you may be more likely to hit you. But, that's not the kind of love I want. I used to think that my ex and I were Richard Burton and Liz Taylor, that the passion was so extreme it had to have danger mixed in or it wouldn't be real. But now, I see a different thing.

I believe in protecting and cherishing the person I love. I want to lift up their dreams and help them be the person they want to become! It's not about finding a way to fit each other, it's about fitting and knowing it. Right now, I'm so so so so so so so lucky to be deeply in love with just such a person. He tells me how grateful he is for me, he calls just to hear my voice, he washes my dishes, he listens, and most importantly we don't believe in bringing anger to each other. One time, I told him that I was afraid he was mad at me and instead of explaining or defending or thinking blame blame, he felt sad that I was afraid. He doesn't want to hurt me. He doesn't want his words or actions to hurt me. And he'd never use his body as a weapon.

This kind of love is easy. It's honest. It's a room where I feel safe to be everything I am at any moment I am.

Yesterday, I threw the burden of my past life into the Charles River. The same place I once cast a spell begging for the ease that I have now, hoping the river god would see my ex and I for our love and grant us the ability to be together without pain. But we weren't right for each other and more than that, I wasn't appreciated for my gentleness, for my creativity, for my ability to love people of all backgrounds--the things I love most about myself. So it's gone. I walked it out. I walked six miles across the city and left my pain in each boot print. I need the room in my heart and my spirit for the love I've found now who I want to give everything to.

The thing about shrapnel is it eventually moves through you. You do become whole again.

Bless bless. I am here and whole. I love you all. With a full heart and empty arms.


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