Mone D. Moore

 

To forgive.

To let go of the past. To let go of the pain someone has caused you.

To think that, maybe, the person who harmed you didn’t mean to.

That, maybe, they were just a human making human mistakes,

Instead of a monster whose wrath altered your very being

And forced your essence into a jagged mold of anxiety and splintered identity.

To move forward with your existence even though every moment

Is spent telling yourself that your invisible scars are real,

That you didn’t imagine the knife in the fist of someone who was supposed to protect you.

 

To pretend that it doesn’t hurt when you look at them.

And that you don’t flinch when they raise their voice.

To become a professional at tip-toeing around them, like a ballerina dancing around a black hole.

To squeeze yourself into the small spaces that their ever-expanding self allows you

And convince yourself that it’s normal and polite,

To make yourself as small as possible and disappear into the background of your own life.

 

To deny that you wake in the night, gasping and sweating,

your eyes wet with unshed tears,

from a nightmare in which you finally spoke up and threw your ire against theirs,

only to be eaten whole by their ravenous ego.

To wire your mouth shut and stuff your rage down into your belly

Where it sours and festers like an ulcer that manifests itself into headaches and lack of appetite.

 

To forgive.

To resign yourself to your own complacency.