Sometimes I lie in bed imagining someone else’s
arms around me. It is cold at night and my
childhood home is built on wavering tempers and
soup dumplings – fragile exterior, once broken,
allows the inside to gush out in a chase of hot

escape. It is cold at night and I want to know
what it is like to be loved. To have someone read
the sorrows on my skin. Erase the pain with
circling thumbs and mold them into joy with their

hands. I have had arms around me before then
questioned why whether in their absence or presence
I still did not feel whole, joy, alive. I learned
that you cannot rely on others to be literate in

your pain and despair. You cannot be molded by
fingers like play-doh; you are a growing tree that
bends with the wind. You cannot help where the wind
comes from or which way it blows you – you can only

build yourself up so you never snap. Nourish your
roots with confidence, encouragement, self-worth.
Love is first felt from within. Wrap you arms around
your body and feel the healing glow in your core

radiate throughout. You are your own author. Write
over your sorrow with joy. Hug yourself at night.


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