A kind of journal (1)
12/20/2010 § Leave a comment
I’m growing tired of the stories I keep telling myself. I believed I could save myself through poetry—that one earnest look inside would deliver me from all this hatred and self-loathing. I thought, if I can carve some kind of beauty out of this bloody mess—if I can just—
The last and only girl who ever loved me begged me to forget it all. I couldn’t find the right words then to make her understand that I had no right to forget. That those who forget can’t forgive, and those who can’t forgive, well… I showed her my palms and shrugged. The worst kind of denial.