I found my bugs bunny doll the other day. I could have gotten rid of it years ago. After all, it’s been years since I played with it. It’s been years since it rested on the pillow beside me. But why didn’t I?
I wish I could tell you that I’m sorry, even though I’ve already said it so many times. I’m sorry that I tend to self-sabotage when I’m too afraid of trusting my own happiness.
A broken engagement. A punch to the gut in 30 seconds. Loss rearing its head. She wonders when the past will let her go.
I write about summer like a lost love
lament how it used to be
When I was young and carefree
In fifth grade, I found out that we were officially moving to Long Island. Part of me eagerly anticipated living in a house with a staircase and a grassy backyard. Yet, I was also overcome with worry about leaving the only place I’ve known. I was 10 years-old when I was diagnosed with chronic heartburn due to stress.
Legs are kind of sore. Poor legs.
Letting go may not be an easy process (I should know), but when we force ourselves to keep what does not serve us anymore, we start to feel stagnant and trapped. It falls on our shoulders like a heavy weight. Closure, which we often have to give to ourselves, is far out of reach.
I have all our memories for safekeeping
I preserve our moments in writing;
they will not wither away with age,
they will be immortal.
We were never meant to be a happy ending
We were fireworks on the Fourth of July,
always fated to beautifully explode.
You are a strong woman when you realize that in order to give to others, you need to first give to yourself.