I don’t think I’ve ever dared to write down what I see in the ruins of me, or tell in any detail the scars & all their secrets.The parts of me that hurt the worst want me to write something for them, but I can’t. I don’t know what to say. I’m lost in all this sadness, and so are they.
In some ways, forcing me to leave was the best thing that could have happened to me. In other ways, it was a disaster. I’m still glad they did it though, because I think I might have just died if I had stayed at that house. Although I ended up there a couple years later, when my mother relapsed on a whim, I think I needed the three years away from that horrible little home where time froze & ideas crept forward too slow to notice any progress.
© AleCat 2012