The “Mr” I once loved chose to reentered his world of
darkness. A world of promised wealth, but complicated with a war that breeds incarcerated
causalities. Now that he’s become a
victim of the darkness, every so many weeks I feel a need to write. I haven’t
figured out why but I do know that, For three years or and more I wrote
everyday….every single fucking day…I wrote, about dreams, aspirations, daily
plans and activities, my children, I painted futures and discussed whiting out
the past even though I knew it wasn’t possible, but the idea was nice! The
point is I wrote every single fucking day….never missed a day…every day I
mailed a piece of myself 343 miles away…to be someone else’s sunshine…and he
acknowledged it, called me his angel…every fucking single day I wrote…And now
that over three years have passed I have learned to exchange the anger for something
I have not given a name yet. But within the terms of the exchange I let the
old me die, let her drift into a quiet passing, and promised not to mourn her
death or shed tears. And although I buried her, the remnants of her resolve
still exist flowing and mixing itself with the streams of my blood. And every now
and again I hear her scream, cry out for what was lost, then scramble to reach
for what is familiar. In these times I restrain her, comfort her, and remind
her of the things she forgot. Knowing all the facts doesn’t keep me from
wanting to write, but knowing the outcome does. Knowing that I am not the same
woman keeps my fingers at bay.
Knowing the part of me that loved him has been
cut away and stapled shut keeps me from the relapse!
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