“Someone Else’s Hand”
I live by these lines.
Today, I went to our spot. I pulled out our book, and put on our sweatshirt, and sat in the grass that we used to make ours. I sat there and stared at the front cover of that book until my hands started shaking, and tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I had to bite on the sleeve of my shirt to hold back the pain. I thought I wasn’t supposed to hurt. I thought that those times were past, that I had finally found solid ground. I thought I had forgotten how to hurt. I was wrong. I was so wrong. You hurt me. You hurt me like you can’t believe. I stood there on the sidewalk and just stared at my feet until I noticed that I wasn’t breathing, and taught myself how to walk again. I didn’t feel sad. I felt confused, I felt deceived, I felt mistreated, I felt like burning our book. I felt like burning our list. I felt like burning all the notes. I still do. I wonder if lighting a match and setting fire to all those wasted pages would cleanse you from my memories, clear out any thoughts of you, still attached to your mind like a frayed string, so close, and now so far away. Fire heals, or so I hear.
I hope you keep everything I gave you. I really do. But I just don’t think I can hold on to these beautiful pieces of you without feeling bitter, and you don’t deserve that.
Destruction breeds creation, right?