It was a way to write about my experience as a domestic abuse survivor.
I still don't clearly remember the week she told me it was over. It's not my memory.
But for her, she didn't think she was harming me. She was just done. She denied her actions and painted it new. It's not her memory.
I still don't clearly remember the week she told me it was over. It's not my memory.
But for her, she didn't think she was harming me. She was just done. She denied her actions and painted it new. It's not her memory.
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The month my life crashed at my feet is a blur to me. That moment in time.
We've both thrown it away in different ways.
Is there a fate or power that collects it?
I like to think some mystic force of nature took this moment in time and keeps it like a sad painting.
Life chipped away at it with loss, heartache, betrayals.
It gets patched up with friends, new love and dreams.
This boat can only swim on troubled waters now, however. Its navigation can never be mended.
The crew can feel it. It doesn't handle the same. It feels less steady. The crew have become very wary.
They refuse to let others on board, lest they too damage the ship.
They try to move on, but the anchor has been trapped in the bay.
It looks like everything is ok on the outside. People remember its great trips and stories... But ultimately it's gone. Something weakened is in its place. The original pieces are lost and the original architect is long since dead.