Sometimes I just want them to be in the place where they left me—mentally tortured

Hatching vengeance is not my thing, but my smile always declines seeing them happy.

The cuts were just too deep that I felt responsible to find bandages.

There are times when I am convinced I am already healed and that the wicked plague they cursed me with doesn’t bother me anymore. Yet a year won’t let its season pass without me losing control of my fists, wanting to punch the innocent corpse I buried a long time ago. Because there’s no way I wanted to see the broken bones they punished with their sweet, manipulated words.

How can memories be so violent? They don’t even notify me for a visit while I shoot my arrows on my playground of today, feeling like an archer—sharing how I choose to combat the target of surviving rather than dodging it.

The hatred, the trauma, and the hunger for apologies were never gone. I just picked the option of forgetting all for a while, and now I can smell them again, rotting near my nose. I tried to close my notebook, but they still end up in my notes. There I splintered sentences they erased nonstop before; however, I made sure to use a permanent ink this hour.

All I yearn for is to see regrets in their eyes, to hear them tell how their dose of their own medicine paid for my 17th glow, and to make them remember me on their every reincarnation as I lose souvenirs of them.

Because with the falling debris, I refused to be one of those…