"You have time."
Those three words could burn a chasm through my hypodermis without rupturing a single slender vein.
My body has become immune to the punctures that have been repeated to me by every friend, family member, and ex.
It no longer reacts with a tender sorrow and eruption of violent tears.
It has become an expected response.
My body is numb to the optimism of those words; the way that a patient with diabetes is anesthetized to their diurnal prick.
The regularity and predictability of the cut has concealed its sting and weight over life’s normal proceedings.
The wait for the “right” time and the “right” man and the “right” moment has exhausted my tear ducts to the point of dehydration.
Please refrain from preaching to me that “You are young,” or “Everything happens for a reason,” or my new favorite: “Trust God’s timing.”
I am weary of the forged confidence inherent in their articulation.
The suspicion that an Eve has been crafted without an Adam will likely cause tumult for some,
But after lonely years, futile dates, and failed relationships, the skepticism has built a durable layer of subcutaneous tissue to sustain each subsequent piercing.
Piercings that are imperceptible to observers, but merely masked by a strong countenance hiding the fragmented craters underneath.
