Once Bitten

It's difficult to grow. It requires exertion and struggle; seeing things within yourself you don't want to see; things you thought you could hide, or hide from. Often it seems that our selves are the things with which we are least familiar, but with whom we spend the most time.

I have gotten to know myself by means of two-way mirrors and interrogation under duress. I play good-cop bad-cop with myself to try and force confessions, to get answers to questions I don't have answers for. We cherish the lies we tell ourselves and forget we obtained them from someone tortured, willing to tell us anything to make the pain stop. 

We forget to forgive ourselves for our failings. Instead we hold bitter resentments and grow distrustful of our ability to make decisions. We are hard and cold with our hearts, never wanting to listen but always wanting to talk. The incessant chatter of worry and indecision sounding always, threateningly, like a snake's rattle. 

If only we were our own anti-venom once bitten. To collapse into our own arms and be held, whispering, 

"Shhhhhh, it's okay. I'm here."