I pour myself—all of my selves—onto the pages,in hopes of not bleeding unintentionally on anyone close to me.
I seek out the safety of virgin-white, crisp pages,whose only dutyis to absorb the blunt force trauma of that day's scream.
The pen and paper—a trusted security blanket.
Except this time, it won’t be used to cushion the furniture in the moving truck,only to fly off the freeway, never to be seen again.She said it was okay—I was getting too old for baby blankets anyway.
I would later realize that blanket was the last thing the other family wrapped me in.
So I crawl to the warm refuge,where it can be held no longer for fearof the scattering shards boiling up and over.
The page praises and taunts,assures me that nothing is off-limits.
No need for cordial tones or niceties,no benefit of the doubts or excuses for all the families.No one is safe—especially not me.
There, I cry and thrash in agony,revisit all the scenes.
They welcome any opportunity for me to live life twice—to wallow a bit in hopes and dreams
that never came to be.
