One day I will write about you. And I will unpack everything that happened. ⠀I will take it all out of the dusty old box that I carry with me, and I will look closely, and turn the pieces slowly in my hands, and I will wonder one last time at the terrible decisions you made. And the terrible hurt you caused. ⠀
Hurt that I can never fathom, no matter how hard I try, no matter how often I speak it, no matter how many times I cry.
I’m not going to open the box today. But I will, some day soon. Because really, I feel it’s time.
I’ve carried this box with me for too long. As a weapon, as armour, as a support group set piece, and now, as a weight that serves no purpose but to slow me down. ⠀
Maybe one day, if we ever meet again, I will tell you about the people in my life who helped me carry this weight. ⠀
The men and women who took your place, in many different ways, at many different stages of my life. Who loved and supported me and cared for me, and wanted nothing in return. ⠀
The ones I have turned to many times, who have never turned me away. ⠀
The ones I think about on this day every year. Who throw open doors and arms at a minutes notice, who always have an ear to offer, and time to give, and advice to lend.
The ones who heal hearts they didn’t break, and mother and father children they didn’t make.