my cry

I wish that I could explain all of this once and then be able to stop explaining it to everyone. I mean, it’s a simple question: ‘how was camp?’ But what people don’t know-simply because they can’t-is that it is not a simple answer. To even begin to explain what occurred I have to backtrack to the end of May and explain moments that I will never forget and moments I have long since forgotten. Here is what I have learned as I have attempted to explain my healing scars to those I love and as I have tried harder than I have ever tried before to move on: the bad becomes a part of you.

I want to move on from all of this. For people to stop asking, for it to stop hurting to think that they are there without me, for every story just to be of joy and not of pain. I want to hear the lyrics and cords to the song that is playing right now and the one that we sung in church today and for my soul to not feel like it is climbing up my throat in an effort for air I supposedly owe it. But as I have laid awake at night this past week and a half I have realized that even the bad things, even the things that break you, even the things you want to run from, become part of you. Removing this bad would be like tearing out one of my veins. Because the bad, as with the good, is always wrapped so closely to something I never want to let go of. Like that moment by the horses after Kez’s uncle died. Like that moment when-the bad is blocking out all of the good. No-that is not fair.

Oh I could argue with myself forever. Instead, I think I will admit something else: I am scared that Cottey is not the place I return to. I need strength and I am scared that I have used it all.

My cry then? Melt and mold me.

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