I've started over many times over the last decade.
Building, collecting, clinging, dreaming.
And then- trashing, destroying, forgetting.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Everything you left, every time, I discarded. I wanted nothing left to remember you by.
Delete the pictures. Delete the songs.
Crumpled love notes at the top of an overflowing bin.
I drove the long way to avoid our places. I swore off anything on which lingered your touch, your scent, your ghost.
Trash. Destroy. Forget.
But with each repeated cycle, as I threw away pieces of you, with them I threw away pieces of myself.
My favorite songs.
My favorite foods.
My favorite clothes.
My favorite memories.
Trashed. Destroyed.
Forgotten.
And here I am again, looking at the remains of what you left in your hurried escape, and the old pattern tugs on me.
Nostalgia stirs my core. Fights a battle with my disgust. With my regret. With my anger. With my grief.
Oh, to start a life with a blank slate- to begin with that innocence, that wide-eyed optimism, that blind trust that you never earned, respected, or deserved.
But that blank slate is a lie. An imagined possibility that does nothing but rob me of the things I loved.
So I won't be trashing- not this time. I won't destroy the little pieces of rubble you left behind.
I don't want to forget.
Because I own these things.
I own my memories.
This song isn't the one we listened to together.
It's just one that I love.
This restaurant isn't where you took me.
It's a place I love to eat.
This room isn't the one where you first kissed me.
It's just a room- and you don't come here anymore.
This wine isn't the one you brought home for me.
It's my favorite wine.
This spot on the couch isn't the place I sat when you announced your grand exit.
It's just my favorite place to sit.
This bed isn't our bed.
This home isn't our home.
This family isn't our family.
My emotions aren't yours.
My time isn't yours.
My thoughts aren't yours.
My decisions aren't yours.
They're mine.
And you own nothing of mine anymore.
Beautiful.
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