How could you forget?

How could you forget where you come from?

How could you forget the misery, the panicked nights, the turbulent days where it felt like there was no future you would ever want a part of, no friend you could ever talk to without choking on scrambled words and misplaced guilt;

how could you forget the caverns in your chest and the aching need to cry when your eyes refused to yield and your brain held on too tight and mother’s words bounced off the walls echoing up a storm, do you think acting like this is cool do you think crying will solve your problems how could you forget

when your days were made of other people’s choices,

when nothing felt like your own,

when every day was a fight and you couldn’t fight back and you couldn’t run and you couldn’t let it out even in private that all you wanted was for it to stop

that you hated yourself as much as you tried to love yourself but you didn’t know how to, couldn’t tell up from down forgiveness from leniency laziness from pain love from hatred from anger from sorrow from bad from good, you still don’t know if you’re good—

Hasn’t it stopped?

Aren’t things better?

How could you forget me?

I thought you wanted this time to take care of yourself. I thought you wanted this time to find yourself. We swore we could be better, we swore we could be tougher.

Have you forgotten how much worse you had it? Can’t you be grateful?

…can't we be alright now?

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for letting you down; I’m sorry for what I’m about to say. I’m sorry that this has to be so disappointing, and that I have to confirm what we were afraid of all along, what we always knew was true but tried not to face,

That escaping didn’t and will never work.

You think you just need more time, you just need more space and you’ll be okay. And maybe it works for a little while, but when the novelty wears off you’ll be right back where you started.

Look at me. Look at this. You could have all the time in the world, but as long as you don’t know don’t want to know don’t want to try to find what to do with it you’ll still be here—listless, empty, apathetic.

And it’s not miserable-trapped-claustrophobic-can’t-fight-can’t-run anymore; at least there is that. No active wanting to die, no active needing to escape;

but look at me, living like I’m dead anyways.

Look at us.

I’m starting to realize that this is all we had when we thought of the better future: “Peace.” Time. Space. Time to do what we wanted, space to think for ourselves. But what we do has been an exercise in escapism and self-pacification for years, and when I’m left on my own all I know how to do is be—not happy. Not sad. Not anything.

I don’t blame you. I think you needed this. I’m just starting to see that it's only ever been a pit stop, and I’m sorry that we got it all wrong. I’m sorry that we’ve overstayed our welcome, that it still hurts, just in a different sort of way.

I’m sorry that everything is ok and we still aren’t.

…

But know that it gets better.

Know that I’m still learning how to remember you without getting stuck back there, and I’m still trying to shove the bitter pill down my throat that we have to consciously restructure our lives, fight and claw and scream at ourselves if we want to leave this limbo, and—

Know that it is better, despite everything.

We can and will be alright.