Sometimes, it’s so hard to simply take a breath. Everything we practiced with listening to Miles Davis on the record player or gazing at my hibiscus fades away, and I fall apart. It’s as though I need to carry a broom with me to sweep up my own broken shards.
I never wanted to be broken, but now I cry and sleep instead of write and create. Memories pierce through my dreams and disrupt my day. Is this what it means to be a survivor? Is this what it means to have survived?
My past haunts me, and I’m begging to be set free.