It's Time To Move On

Once upon a time when my uniform colors were yellow and blue; when we stayed up until midnight to find out if Santa made our dreams come true, and by Santa I mean you. Once there was a time when in order to call your number I literally had to dial it. It was a time when the phone lived on the wall, and I lived behind it, waiting for you to call. I waited and I wondered if I mattered to you at all. I waited for you to walk over the dead, to see that the day's events had left some bruises on my head. I was elated at how you stood up for me, because of you my bullies cast themselves into the sea. I never thought that the fear I held for you could work for me. So I learned to hide inside where you couldn’t find me, to the point where when you touched my body for pleasure my mind would not remind me. The pain that would be the measure came back one day to find me. History has a way of finding us, pain has a way of binding us and trauma has a way of reminding us. 

"You tried to be scissors to my wings, but you found that the power of my words on paper could cut through many things."

These days history no longer has an address for me, and pain is a power, not an enemy. Trauma is a muse, it was also a weapon I used. Whatever the case is, I have the power to choose. I chose to surrender and in doing so I realized the power to remember, that no history here can hold me. If it holds you, I cannot console you, any more than I can control you. Just remember what I told you because we will not exist on the same plane again. I knew you as many things but none of them was as a friend. You tried to be scissors to my wings, but you found that the power of my words on paper could cut through many things. You found what you were looking for in me and realized it wasn’t you, and you couldn’t bear the uncertainty of what loving me could do. I realized the absurdity in my thinking, that without you I’d be sinking. 

"I heard it said once, that a man is born twice, I reckon the second time is when he speaks his own voice."

It’s time to move on, but not like the numbers I once dialed. Once an adult, twice a child. Seems like playing games is a fashion that never goes out of style. But it’s time to move on, we’re only here for a short while. How happy are you willing to let yourself be? Thank you for calling but I already know your story. I can’t listen to you rewrite history again, where you cast yourself as the victor and I the villain. I told you once before but the dial tone can tell you again. Once upon a time when matchbox cars were a thing, before we knew what future smartphones would bring; when we had what seemed like so little, which we now realize was everything. I heard it said once, that a man is born twice, I reckon the second time is when he speaks his own voice. When he puts the pacifiers away; when he understands what it is to know, how to love, how to live, and how to let go.