The part of you that you kept

I recently had a conversation with a educated, powerful, black woman who felt the need to school me on some of my shit before they lead to my downfall. The particular incident that brought about this conversation between sister friends she encouraged me to never speak about again until I met my maker on judgment day. Specifically telling me to put it in my box of secrets and never share. And even reminded me of what smile it was behind. Needless to say that day, the mask I often wear, cracked in front of that sister stranger.
But not because of how right she was but because I had already emptied out that room. My Pandora’s box of secrets has been safely tucked away in the mind of a lover who shared many of my own. We danced with all the thoughts and actions that made us monsters and faced the complex responsibility of humanity together and with new eyes of discovery and awe.
The tears that I shed weren’t for the incident or for my stuff. It was for that authentic human connection that I have to exist without. It was because in this hustle and bustle of a world I found someone who took the time to listen and hear my story. And equally important that I was captivated by hers and only wanted to be apart of her pages and chapters to come.
It’s difficult living in a world that has you always hiding yourself however it is worse to actually take off the mask. Feel the sun on your mal-nourished skin only to exist in a world where that type of vulnerability is neither expected or accepted.
As the tortured human an artist must be, this vulnerability is more coveted then air and masterpieces. And many artists give everything just to Afford a moment with a person who can dance with you and the skeletons in your closet. But one day you wake up and realize that the people you wished to have those moments with are gone. And without those moments of pure human vulnerability, this life, becomes far less easy to tolerate.