Old Wounds

Dear Ms B. Fassie,

Last night I cried so hard, my teeth shook and the lines between my palms trembled. I wrote you a love note for you to see when you found me, but those horrid ants came and took it away. I may have spilled some wine onto it. I do not know. But it is not here now.

I am not here now. I am searching for something in between those verses my mother gave me over Christmas dinner. I’m looking for something that will make all this reality go away. Too much reality sometimes feels like the sun glaring at you when you finally find the courage to step outside. I do not have the courage. Help me. H.e.l.p.m.e. Come to me. Teach me how to love life again. How to be grateful. When to say please and no thank you. I do not remember these things.

Last night the lights cut and I sat around in the dark before deciding to take out the trash. I played your songs on my phone and wished for a legitimate struggle. How do you know you are hurting enough to actually call it hurt? How did you know when to stop fighting?

I’m tired of fighting now. I want to rest. Teach me.


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