Damn

There is a closet in my bedroom that holds far more than just stuff. I am finding the forgotten bits of me inside of it. Things and hopes past forgotten. It’s a dated closet. I know when I filled it with the things I thought I could not live without and promptly did so. My soul died when I returned back here. And I let it. I can see now how much I was heartbroken and hurt.

I’ve unearthed pain, untended wounds. I’ve been bleeding for five years now. I came back defeated, not loved, not rejoicing, not wanted but needed. Five years ago, I gave up and did so completely. I gave up on everyone and me.

I withdrew into myself. I rarely left the house. I barely go outside. I have no social life beyond what’s on-line. And even that isn’t much at all. I isolated myself from everyone but my kids.

I tried to work on me. Tried is the perfect word here as I think I failed at it. I found myself having far more unresolved issues that I ever knew. Yet I missed the biggest one that should have been staring me in the face.

All this time I’ve pretended that everything is alright and I’ve been believed. I don’t know what to do with this information. I’m packing up the house and accidentally unpacking me.

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About Isabella LeCour

She is nothing more than the collections of thoughts placed into the virtual worlds. She is a poet, a mother, a lover, many things to different people. But mostly, she is nothing but smoke and mirrors - some ethereal thing that blinks in an out of existence.
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