Windows

I cried myself to sleep last night.
I think I love you, he said
and I said I’m sorry.

Tonight I sleep with the window open
and ignore where his presence used to be.
The cold distracts me from his absence.

Passing cars substitute themselves
for the creaking of the mattress under his weight,
the wind a poor replacement for his breathing
from the other side of the bed.

Tonight I sleep with the window open
and remind myself
that there are worse things than the cold.

Rose Quartz

On the last day of class,
my professor gives everyone a small pink stone.
She tells us that rose quartz represents
love,
compassion,
healing from trauma.
Within seconds I secretly hope mine is
smooth,
unmarred,
perfect.
I want mine to be perfect.

As she sets the stone in front of me, a gift,
I'm already looking for the imperfections,
hoping they aren't there.
They are.
I don't want this, I think,
and feel shame because it is mine.

My fingers slide over the smooth surface of the stone,
my thumb rubbing at the imperfections
as if enough friction will make them disappear.

I set it back on the desk, face down to hide the scars.
Other people hide their trauma,
and I want to hide this too.
I didn’t ask for it.
I don't want my classmates to see my the imperfections.
Is my stone less than theirs because it is marred?

The more I search, the more scars I see,
but the less they bother me.
Like me, the stone has had its share of ordinary trauma.
Now, somehow, it is more beautiful to me, not in spite
but because of its imperfections.

The weight of the stone.
Unexpectedly comforting.
I roll it around in my palm,
enjoying the way it clinks
against the ring on my middle finger.

The rose quartz may be imperfect, but it is mine.
And it is beautiful.