Once upon a time, I looked out my window and saw a concrete building illuminated by the setting sun- golden and glowing. I wondered why the sun wasn't shining on me, promising myself I'd look past it by never looking into the past.
On beautiful rainy days, however, I want to begin again on my promise. The stoic in me begs me to remember anything but the hurt, the screams, the chest threatening to rip itself into pieces at the sound of what used to be your favourite love song. The stoic in me was hardly ever a stoic. The stoic in me is an essayist.
Some days my resentment is hot and molten, like an unforgiving Indian afternoon, but forgiveness learns to find its way to my tongue, even if all it does is make me quiet.
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Once upon a time, love felt like pretend drowning, like when you hold your head underwater and test the last seconds of your breath before it gives up.