it's kind of nice, talking

My lips are tight, and I cannot smile. Not a real smile, not a Haley smile. Just to the left of center on my lower lip, pulling the skin taught, cracked and aching, and the other almost perfectly centered between the corner of my mouth and the middle of my upper lip, five days closer to healed, a dull ache. I don’t know where you’ve come from or how you got here. There is nothing to do but wait.

Each time I try to smile, each time he makes me laugh, each time I start to speak, they pull. Serving as physical reminders of what I fear. You’re only pretty on the outside. You are ugly inside, and now everyone can see it. This isn't real. He won’t want you if you don’t have something to offer him physically.

But last night, last night I spoke the light of truth into that darkness. Confessed fear and insecurity. And was met with listening ears and more light. “It’s kind of nice, talking,” he smiled, glancing up at me while he diced tomatoes.