Last week, I relapsed.
I have accepted my impulsiveness and the amount of regret it comes with when it manifests itself.
Last week when I relapsed, I woke up regretting it.
I was angry at myself for forgetting that healing takes time.
When my mother finds out, she won't speak to me.
When my father finds out, we'll be standing in the kitchen.
He'll drop what he's holding.
He'll break my mothers favorite glass vase.
I guess there isn't anything beautiful for it to hold anyway, because even then it hurts when things break in your hands.
So I understand the hurt. I tried to talk about it. The thing is there is no easy way to say that the best dreams I've had are the ones in which I die. There isn't an easy way to say that I hate myself for not having the courage to leap in front of moving cars. Last week when I relapsed, I woke up regretting it. I held myself to make it okay. I didn't talk about it. When my parents found out, I tried using apologies as bandages. I can still see the bleeding from here.. even now.
YOU ARE READING
Unsent Letters.
Storie breviA handful of letters that will never quite get to its intended recipient. NO COPYRIGHT INTENDED.
