Last night I wrote. For the first time in so long I put pen to paper and just wrote. I wrote all the things I’ve wanted to say. I wrote all the hurt, all the anger, all the frustration. I wrote to you about how you’ve torn open the scars of hurts I thought long healed. I wrote about how the smallest part of me, a part I’d always protected and never given to anyone, that part which I gave up to you completely, freely and stupidly was crushed. I wrote about how terrified I was that that little part of me would never heal again. I wrote about the rage at being told I was things that I wasn’t. I wrote my disappointment at your weaknesses, my frustration at my own.
I wrote it all in pen on paper and when the cigarettes were finished and the wine was gone, there it was. In black and white for me to see. It was like seeing what was swirling around inside being flung out into the wind for anyone to catch and inspect.
That scared me. So I tore it up and put it inside again because if I can’t say these things to you then inside is where it belongs.
All the tearing up of pages, and the swirling and the wind makes me thinks of snowglobes. And there’s something very beautiful and sad about snowglobes. Loved this post.
Somewhere out there will be someone who will love you and accept you for who you are. And about whom you will feel the same.
It does help to write it all down, and to tear it up, too. Lots of love and luck