Trace my bones in ink from the pen you use to write sad stories. I’ll be a part of the plot and I know you’ll make me the villain. There’s two lies and the truth and we fall somewhere in between. Swallow every harsh word and digest it. Let it rot in the belly of when heals you in those moments where you remember everything. You held the stone that shattered through my rib cage. Watched my heart fall to the floor and reach back for safety- you never gave it a fighting chance. You play dirty and I choose to fight with closed fists. My version of healing doesn’t involve a memoir about how the sad girl feels less sad. Or how the pain taught me to bandage the wound once I understood how to fix it. Or how speaking the truth changed me in some philosophical manner. These false ideas of piecing yourself back together don’t mean a fucking thing. Sometimes you have to bleed out. Sometimes you block it away until it resurfaces in an unruly fashion. Sometimes you walk around broken and that’s okay too. My spirit is what you’d call, ‘living proof’. -AMT ©️