I waver between forgiveness and rage at the speed of a coin flip.
I want them all to know…
Look what he did…
He strolls with false-pride,
as he’s never been known to say or feel the words,
I am sorry.
I get angry when I think about that.
Some days I find it incredibly difficult to live past survival mode when I recall that oftentimes,
the ones who are supposed to love us damage us.
And they don’t fill in the cracks with gold:
they leave us with gaping wounds, and zero guidance on how to heal them.
“Those aren’t mine,” they say.
Then it becomes something wrong with us – not them.
They anesthetize themselves of ownership,
and we inevitably begin to drown.
But we have to swim, whether they own what is theirs or not.
We have to break the cycle of trauma; it came from somewhere.
We have to chip away at the torment unworthiness brings,
and learn to thrive in a sea of survivalists:
learn to see that the snakes are just ropes,
though it’s difficult to differentiate between the two are times.
It’s hard to believe that there are people out there who would gladly take a turn filling in the cracks with us.
But they do exist.
We must learn to believe that.