You, a Memoir

What terrifies me the most is that one day, you’l be the story I tell my daughter. You’ll be the story I tell her when she can’t imagine life outside of her bed, curled up in blankets and heartbreak, when the only thing she’s had to eat in days is the voicemail's he sent her and the pages of text messages that came the days prior to her heart bursting into a million razor blades that turned to stab her in the soul. She can’t sleep because the words he said to her burn the back of her eyes whenever she tries to shut them. And I’ll finally climb into bed with her, and try and promise her that she’ll be okay while I let her tears soak through my sweater and brush his memories out of her hair, and I’ll tell her about the boy I met when I was 16. The one I first laid eyes on in the library, and within a month I couldn’t image my life without. The guy my friends tried to warn me about but knew in the long run that young love was driving the train. I’ll tell her about how we spent all of our time together exploring and laying on the hood of his car pointing out constellations. Then I’ll tell her about how he ripped my beating heart right out of my chest and played with it while I watched from the background. I’ll tell her about how he had saved me from myself, and about how he destroyed everything about me. I’ll tell her about how it hurt, because it hurt me so much it almost killed me. She’ll know about how my father started working half days so that he could come home and make sure I hadn’t taken too many pills. About how I, like her, didn’t get out of bed for days on end and when I did I wasn’t strong enough to get myself in the shower and dressed before I was crying again. And then I’d tell her about how it stopped hurting. How I stopped crying everyday. I’d tell her about how my father started working full time again, about how I started being able to get up and care for myself again. My friends started seeing me go out again, and how eventually I wasn’t afraid to let people get close to me again. But what I won’t tell her is about how some nights I still have dreams about you that wake me up in the middle of the night and refuse to let me breath the next day. About how sometimes, when someone says something like he did, how I cry in the bathroom at work because your memory hit me like a brick wall, or about the picture of you I have hidden in my jewelry box.

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