Worthless
And it’s me who can’t
rise
rise
rise
from the ashes,
Because I have a name andI know itand I have a secret, it’s a big one:
I wish I was broken so I’d know
so I’d know
I was worth it.
Blue
Ishove the paper into the shoebox, slamming the lid on it and kicking it across the room. Sometime in the middle of reading, my heart plummeted to the pit of my stomach. I can’t stop gulping down air; it’s like my lungs refuse to absorb the oxygen. Standing straight as a rod, hands balled into fists at my sides, I stare at the box so hard I wish the thing would burst into flames. Sickness rolls through me as my gaze shifts to the one still sealed shut. If those are the “heavy” poems, I don’t think I want to see them anymore.
How could she have kept something like this from me? Did she think she needed to hide it?
Shutting my eyes, I focus on my breathing until I feel some semblance of calm again.
“Where are you, Mom?” I whisper to no one.
My steps are unsteady as I cross the room. I can’t make sense of the words in that box. They were written years ago.
Decadesago.
She must have gotten better. The woman I know today is not depressed. She’s happy and wise, the most serene person I know. All my life, she’s been the biggest advocate for positivity.
The pressure on my chest eases at the thought. That has to be it. This is a part of her past, and I can accept that. I can even try to understand why she’d keep it to herself, if only for the sake of not having to relive something so far behind her.
But if that’s the case, why did Tim show me any of this? What does it have to do with now?
I’m about to open the door to ask him when I spot something on the corner of his desk. It’s a plain white sheet of paper from his printer, but scrawled in my mom’s writing is a message.
Tim—
Forgive me.
Please, love her enough for the both of us.
P.S. No more secrets. Show her everything.
A whirlwind splits the floor beneath my feet, sucking me in whole.
It doesn’t mean anything.
My lungs scream—in confusion, in fear.
It can’t mean anything.
I know her. She would never leave me. But the thought is tainted with a bitter aftertaste I can’t deny.
