The Segmentation of Emily.

There she was, spread eagle in the middle of a desert highway.

 

Her old life pulling on her right hand. Her hand that held her heart so fragilely. The hand that knows her best, writes her thoughts, brushes her teeth, fiddles with her eyebrow when she’s stressed. Her hand that held his so tightly. So fiercely. The one that broke when he let go.

 

The people who love her for just being her pulls her left. Her hand that is a bit clumsy. Knows what she was doing, but doesn’t do it as well as her right. The hand that drove the kids to school while her right fought to keep the kids from pushing each other in the back seat. The hand that brushes cat and dog fur. The hand that wraps around everyone, beckoning them to become friends but keeps them away from her right. The hand that gets tired. So so very tired.

 

Her right foot is pulled by her logic. Wanting to stand firm in one place, where her balance and security met solidly on the ground. With the firm earth supporting her, and life’s uncertainty never there. Her right telling her not to stray. That no risk is worth all that much, and why be free when you can feel safe.

 

Her left foot desperately tries to run away with her freedom. It aches to run to the sunlight, where music plays loudly and courses through her veins. Where getting close to people wouldn’t happen, and hurt could never find her.

 

But her family, her blood doesn’t pull. They stand back, fighting others that try to pull her even further. Their courage, strength and resilience always was and always is a part of her. They know that she needs them most. That they would wait patiently for her and never pull her. Because there is only so much you can bend before you break.