Open Wound

I am an open wound.  But not in a bad way.  I’m freshly punctured, split open and exposed to more than I ever knew I didn’t see.  I’m full of fluid and blood running out of the corners of this slightly parted mouth, like tears out of the corner of your eye.  I’m crying because of what I see for the first time.  I’m bleeding and open and warm and here, and I feel so alive.  A fog of awareness lifts out of me and thins and clears as it disperses and absorbs into everything.  I am in everything now.  I see everything.  I feel it.  Suddenly every movement, every sound tickles the sensitive rim of my open awareness.  Suddenly, I am a hole hungry for more, gaping and waiting to be fed more, more knowledge, more feeling, more life.  I am curious and excited and terrified lips ready to taste everything I never imagined, anxious to kiss every experience square in the mouth.  I am sore inside, but only because of what I haven’t felt yet, sore because this is the first time I’ve opened so wide to accept the world I was afraid of for so long.  I’m sore because I’ve just been born in a way, and I’m bleeding, bleeding, bleeding to feel.  I’m overflowing with tears and sweat and excitement, waiting for it to begin, waiting to see all there is to see.  I’m here.  Finally.  Here and on my way somewhere even better, even more enlightened and liberated and flying.  I never thought I’d be on my way to where I’m headed, simply because I never knew it was there.  I never knew for the skin over my eyes, my shallow consciousness.  But now something has broken through and found me waiting beneath the surface, waiting to be set free.  Waiting to be touched.

I am an open wound.  But not in a bad way.