My mom and I hashed some stuff out a few days ago. Old words, misunderstood. I think I was self-reflecting. Back then, I had enough loathing for myself to fill a bucket, and a few words from my mom were just what the fire needed to burn hot and long. Ten years, maybe longer. Isn’t that sad? Stupid and sad. I was going to hold onto it forever, hoarding the pain and keeping it safe. Feeding it. Tell me now, she’d said, when she was still in ICU. Anything you want to say. Tell me so I can explain myself while I’m still here. And still I was going to hold onto it, because that was what I had always done. But a few days ago, it all came spilling out. And I stared at it in plain light of day… and thought about how I’d cared for and nurtured this disgusting, rotten thing inside me… and I thought about how I do that with other things – words, images, ideas.

what it is: stubbornness. hanging onto the past. because it gives an excuse to not finish, to not accomplish, to try but not really try. the world goes on, and still i am back there, clinging to self-doubt. i am doing it. time to stop. give up that fight. it’s hard, yes. the fingers have been holding on so long they’ve locked like that, clutching to the past. time for a new fight. time to remember how.

new goal: finish something. finish anything. one foot ahead of the other, one word after another. remember it doesn’t have to be good. it won’t be. it won’t spring forth from my brain fully formed and lovely. i think it might stagger out like a zombie, dripping fluids and dragging limbs. but that’s okay. it’s okay.



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