The things we hold inside

  I once believed her pain. She came to me weak, whispering, “I’m afraid,” and I answered with my heart. She used her power to curse, not to heal. She wore sorrow like silk and made it seductive, told a tale of crimes committed against her soul until I took on the sentence. I continued to reach out— my hand like a child, watching it get slapped away through the years. I was called delusional, while the truth stayed hidden behind my back. It caused me to doubt my mind, to question what I knew deep inside. The cornerstone on which she stands was built by these two hands. While telling others how worthless I was, I gave her that foundation freely, truly, and in love. The message was clear: I was the problem. I was the one to fear. So I took out the bat to punish myself, trying to fix all my flaws. I was trying to earn love— but it really wasn’t love at all. Pride fell, that’s for sure. Shame ruled. The lies conquered. And buried beneath what felt ...