Comfort comes in the strangest of forms.
I’ve found it in a hug, a listening ear, a silent place.
A stranger’s kind words, the remembrance of a happy time, the sight of a butterfly.
A deep breath, loud sobs, a soft bed.
The warm sun, a splatter of black paint, the feel of computer keys.
A child’s voice, a dog’s fur, the smell of tangerines.
The passage of time, a cool breeze, the right song.
A pretty dress, ice cream, a tattoo.
A children’s book, a long drive, another’s story.
The feel of burlap, a deep purple bruise, the same movie.
A whispered prayer, a slew of curse words, a hopeful fantasy.
Midnight, knowing time zones, a fading scar.
Sometimes it’s comforting to tease out the pain, to tear my heart open and let the blood gush.
Pushing and prodding until it’s intolerable and I pass out from exhaustion.
Other times it’s comforting to avoid it, to pretend the pain doesn’t exist.
Like it never happened.
Dancing and singing like before, when it didn’t hurt.
Then there are times where it’s comforting to feel nothing at all.
To sit and stare blankly, a lump of flesh taking up space.
Secretly wishing a black hole would swallow me up as I willingly embrace my fate.
Yes, my comforts are strange.
But strange is where I live.
Strange is where I find comfort.