Sometimes we forget the storm that made someone else drown, because we were breathing just fine as we walked away with memory selective and shoulder blades as cold as a knife. Keep walking. Stop looking back after the storm settled to see if maybe you can conjure up some more thunder in my sky, love. You are a stranger because you want to be. My roots… are where they have always been. I dug every one up, studied it like the back of my hand, replanted it solid and it’s growing as beautiful as it always did, only stronger. I have no blades in my garden. I took them all out of my back, let the blood spill out like calling the name of loyalty, and your voice didn’t echo back anywhere. I own every seed of pain rooted in my bones since birth. Put down the shovel that keeps digging my wounds to search for your reason. You owe me nothing. I got the answers I needed from a public display of third party fiction written with swords thrown at me. I caught each one straight in the mouth, swallowed them all whole to make sure they sliced my heart again and again, cut my wrist just to seal the words in my veins, stitched it up like drama trying to be pain recovered. Find the truth in your own light and don’t ever think my dark has anything to do with you. The same dark you knew by heart and loved anyway… until it became inconvenient; so be it. You showed me how dark can be pitch black and completely alone, but I’m not afraid; I know this by heart. Thank you for showing me how to to keep myself warm in the shade and the continuous reminders of my roots, ripping up like cold steel bars that cage me. For the life of me, I was almost free. But almost is like a promise planted, left to die with everything else, even the flowers I was worth a time or two, or a friendship that withers because it wasn’t worth it to you. No apology is needed from you. I owe myself and trust me, love, I pay every single day.