I have long admitted to myself that I am a girl of ghosts and grudges, but at the same time I still struggle to accept that. It’s all due to the part of me that refuses to let go, something that sounds more romantic and positive. I know it isn’t so. The bigger cause of all my pain and baggage is not the keeping of things for too long but the hard-pinching inability to trust. That is in fact my true downfall.
Some days I realize I no longer remember what it is like to trust. I seek it in small moments like when I enter a car and I close my eyes for a few minutes, or in the occasional girls’ night out when I am on my way but I can already feel my hand being held. I don’t know if that’s trust or recklessness, or maybe both. Perhaps I cannot reconcile safety and certainty with the aspect of life we aptly named “reckless abandon.” Who is doing the abandoning: me or the world?
I censor these thoughts with bad editing for most of the days because they make me confront the utter brokenness of my heart. They make me ask how, or when, or why it happened, things I have force-forgotten how to remember. They make me mourn past lives I thought I had scraped off every layer of skin I owned. They hurt. In ways that tidal waves are supposed to hurt, in ways I did not know I knew.
There is so much pain. And I have such small hands.