A thousand miles away from here, down a road I know, there's a brick house with a mailbox that's not holding the letter I've never written.
That address I know by heart. That front door I've walked through so many times. And slammed a few.
Every morning as I'm washing the dishes from the night before and making everyone's breakfast, my mind wonders and a familiar knife slices my heart. I am so afraid something happening to me before I write and send that letter.
This business I've left unfinished.
For so long I've been attacking the mirror, terrified of co-existing with the reflection. The years, the pain all staring back at me. Haunting me.
But every time I sit down to write that letter, the words come tumbling out and get all jumbled. I ramble and say too much. Or I can't say enough, finding only the most inadequate words. The words that can't show how much guilt I carry. The words that can't show how much my soul hurts. The words that can't show how much I would give to take it all back.
I don't feel like I deserve the right to say the two most worthless words, I'm sorry. And I'm afraid that that letter is just a futile attempt at redemption.
Because the truth is, the only person who can't forgive me is me. That is one letter I may very well never write. But these stories I carry like heavy chains, holding my hand to the flame of guilt and shame, serving my punishment over and over and over. Still my conscience, never satisfied.
This is where I'll shed this story, from the beginning; traveling down a road I know for the last time. This is where I lay it down.