To You.

by

I don’t ever think about you, except when I do. I saw your picture a few weeks ago. Your hair is grey now. I get scared of you being older, even as I am not ready to throw away all the pain you caused me when we were both younger.

You were always the most unsafe thing for me. Except when you were the one I ran to; I did so twice. I wonder if you remember. When the world was too crazy and intense, when human relationships were too much to cope with, you were the safe one to run to. Your inability to have a real relationship made you safe in those times when I didn’t want questions, judgment, or caring. I just needed some space, and by then I was big enough that I could try to shield myself from any hurt you might cause.

So I wonder how you are. I don’t think I wish you ill. I remember the long walks we took when I was little, I remember the board games, I remember painting your face with makeup. So it wasn’t all bad. And sometimes, when I’m low, those moments almost seem to outweigh all the impossible things I do remember. And those I don’t.

I wonder why I don’t remember your gun in your mouth, right in front of my face. Was I too young? Was it too traumatic? Did she shield me from you? Did I just not understand? And the more scary question….what else don’t I remember?

The things I do are bad enough. The yelling, hitting, cruel jokes. The girlfriends, the moving out and coming back and moving out again, the stealing money. The alcohol. The staying out all night. Hitting my mother. The big dreams that sucked our money away. But worst of all, your disconnection.

I don’t know what it will take for me to ever be okay about you.

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