8/02/21
“I should write about my mother today. About how my lungs fail at the thought of her, about the hand that wraps itself around my heart and squeezes, about the fist that beats me down and takes my breath. They lied about time; it doesn’t heal wounds, it just sharpens the blade so you don’t notice it cutting you open every day. I have always hidden from the things that hurt the most. I buried the grief in the same grave and begged it to find rest. But there has always been an echo, in every smile a small sorrow. So instead I force my voice down to the bottom of a well where no one can hear me scream. And I scream. And I stare at the tiny circle of light far above and I feel myself dragged further into the dark. If I kept a diary, every day would say today I died again. Dear diary, I’m not crying, you’re crying.”
