A Hard Lesson To Swallow

I learned how to forgive in the same way I learned how to smile. Inhaling the pain like it was a sweet aroma from a garden fresh with blooms or from a bakery that just pulled blueberry muffins out of the oven. Parting my lips, I exhaled the truth through my teeth and I internally begged my tongue to not be mistaken for being coated with silver.

I learned how to forgive in the same way I learned how to dissect sharks. I took a scalpel and sliced through my anger like it was a sandpaper hide and I stuck my fingers into the dirtiest most vulnerable parts of my soul and pulled the water logged acceptance up by the gills through the bile and laid it on the table to air out and breathe.

I learned how to forgive in the same way I learned how to swallow pills. I put their tablet full of the hatred they felt for me on my tongue and I hated the way it tasted so I spit it out into my kitchen sink. I bucked up my courage to try again. I put another tablet on my tongue and hated the weight of it. I tried to wash it down with water but I got scared when I felt it move toward the back of my throat. I spit the water and the pill into the sink and watched as it turned into the denial I didn't want to face. I decided that the third time should be the charm so I popped another pill full of their hatred into my mouth and washed it down with water before I could think about it. I felt the contents dissolve in my stomach and acknowledgement spread throughout my body.