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.


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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