Safety is security,
a promise you'll always be there.
It's leaning against an impenetrable wall,
or the sturdy base of a tree,
or the tiny space between my bookshelf and desk.
Safety is comfort,
a protective armor around me.
It's hugging my knees to my chest
as I let myself sway slowly.
Safety is warmth,
embraced by a tender sun,
my skin flushed with hope.
Safety is calmness,
quiet voices of reassurance.
It's the wind sharing its secrets,
making me feel less alone.
It's the pale yellow glow of a lamp at 3 AM,
verses of a worn book hushing me to sleep
like the lullaby my father used to sing.
Safety is your presence
gently watching over me,
holding space without judgment,
letting me be however I am.
Safety is support... acceptance.
Safety is the ability to breathe
without the onset of panic.
Safety is a child peeking through
the window of an abandoned cottage,
knowing someday soon,
they might be able to call it home.
