journal · prose


You are a poison, toxic, cancerous. Creeping back into my life just when I am beginning to think I am finally free of you, corroding everything I work so hard to build. Slowly stripping my life apart until all that’s left are the bare bones of me, naked and afraid and fighting desperately to hold on to my sanity, to any scrap of dignity left in the disaster. You steal from me as wraith and shadow; I cannot see you, cannot touch you, cannot speak to you, even if only to shout or beg for you to cease and be gone from my life, to allow me some peace, or semblance thereof. You take and you take, through both your actions and inactions, which speak voluminous tones, more resonant and painfully clear than any word you have ever uttered in my presence. And this new knowledge, the secret revelations of your many lies and betrayals, of your complete disregard for me, of the unfathomable bounds of your selfishness and ingratitude, bounce around the confines of my skull until I am certain I will surely go mad. Because I cannot even confront you. These secrets take root within me and blossom into sprays of anger which require the use of all my energy and willpower to suppress and resist. You make it so, so terribly hard to be good. And how do I combat specter and shade? And how can I fight you, if we are supposed to be on the same side? The myriad of questions that I have for you cloud my mind, and within the unfocused haze of all that which will never be answered, two thoughts take solid shape and plague me more than any other:

Are you even worthy of my goodness? And am I even good, if I cannot forgive you?


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