A friend told me the other day that he sometimes forgets how fragile I am. I thought that was an odd comment, since “fragile,” or “delicate,” or “weak” have never been words that were used to describe me. I’ve always been the stubborn, steadfast, reliable Taurus; the earth sign that is dependably sensible and pragmatic. Even as a teenager, I didn’t waste my time on things or people that had no real substance to them.

But tonight, I think maybe he was right. I think he saw deeper than I wanted to admit. Maybe my heart’s so threadbare and tattered that there’s really not much substance left. The patches are all that’s holding it together—like an old coat that’s been worn so long that it’s become useless for any kind of protection. The cold and the damp cuts right through as easily as if it weren’t there. It seems as if things that shouldn’t hurt me—after all I’ve been through these last few years—still do. It’s hard for me to keep warmth in my heart. It slips easily away, like a thought from my mind; and try as I might, I can’t keep it in. I want to. I love the warmth. I love the glow it brings to everything around it. But the wind blows out my tiny flame almost effortlessly. And there I am again, alone in the cold and dark.

I keep trying, but my heart still can’t find its way home.