#hmhwriting

I find myself in such  a hard place cause I know this not my right home , I know where I’m supposed to be will be filled with love understanding and compassion so much

I don’t talk about how your mother’s name still pops up as a recent contact on Facebook messenger. I don’t talk about how the Christmas tree I bought stands tall in your apartment as a pyre, burning in warm light. I don’t talk about the one-worded replies, the corners of my bedroom you still haunt. I don’t talk about how I will always feel a mother to your dogs. I don’t talk about the plushies won at an arcade sitting in the back window of my car, the Polaroid of us shoved out of sight into the center console. I don’t talk about the bathroom door and the violence it has seen. I don’t talk about my dreams and your hair knotted in my fists like a lifeline, raw desperation to hold on. I don’t talk about how my number in your phone still bears the nickname you gave me. I don’t talk about the wailing my favorite stuffed animal has witnessed. I don’t think about how years and years of love and living can be shrunk down to fit in the palm of my hand, how it has morphed from soft cotton to a shard of glass. I don’t talk about the matching necklaces still hanging on the curtain rod in your bedroom. I don’t talk about one of two identical sweaters hanging deep in the back of my closet. I don’t talk about my mom still buying your dogs presents, my grandparents holding on to a Christmas card for you.  I don’t talk about the ache of loss in my chest but god, is it there. It is there. 

Not everyone is meant to help you heal. Not everyone will benefit your journey. Not everyone understands your path.