We can’t let ourselves be defined by the moments that hurt us the most, any more than we can leave a window broken to emphasize its shards. We don’t live with sharpness in our material world; why should we allow our hardest parts to infiltrate the rest? I choose to live in wholeness, to remember how we were, before we threw rocks at the safe world we’d created.
I remember young and stupid. The days I spent lying on your carpet while you played the same song over and over. I pretended you were playing it for me, my belly aching for your attention. Aching for confirmation that we meant something more than fingers on plastic ivory, than fingers tracing carpet patterns like I wanted to trace your face. Lies I told myself, because I didn’t know any better.
I remember driving home with beer between your…
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