The Shape Of Trust Poem by Sereena Azevedo

I am learning how to heal
but no one told me
it would feel like walking
through a house with no lights,
hands outstretched,
bumping into furniture
I didn't know was there.

They say 'just trust again'
as if trust were a simple switch,
as if my body hasn't memorized
the precise temperature of betrayal,
the exact weight of words
that seemed kind
until they weren't.

Love is a language
I've heard others speak fluently,
while I stand with
a partial dictionary,
recognizing words
but missing context,
afraid to mispronounce
my own needs.

I practice in small doses—
telling a friend I'm not okay,
accepting help without
calculating its eventual cost,
believing a promise
might not be prelude to pain.

Each time someone reaches for me,
two voices argue in my head:
one whispers 'run, '
the other wonders what might happen
if, just this once,
I stayed.

I am cartographer of my own healing,
mapping territories of tenderness
I'm not convinced exist,
sketching coastlines of connection
that might be mirages.

Is this what love feels like—
this fragile thing,
this constant questioning,
this fear tangled with hope?

Or is love waiting
on the other side of fear,
patient as winter soil,
waiting for me to believe
that something beautiful
could grow from so much broken ground.