If I'm being honest, it's like a monster hiding in my closet that I don't want to acknowledge because the moment that I do it becomes real.

It's like the things that I feel don't really matter, because honestly I'm happier gathering up the pieces of my memory that I left behind while trying to survive then I am just being alive.

Because for me, my life is a movie I don't really watch, it's just the background noise I keep on repeat to distract myself from getting lost in memory as more of them pass by.

To be honest I don't remember much until the age of nine, when I said goodbye to my father to see my dad for the first time. We got along well.

Then comes me at ten, a timid, tense, and nervous wreck going in for my first routine check with the doctor before he told me a repeat surgery would make me a temporary amputee every couple of years, a common practice.

Next is me at twelve all perplexed because my heart swelled the first time I met an angel. I remember well her broken wings had the most beautiful feathers I'd ever seen, they were black and grey with hints of scattered ink beneath, so she didn't mind when I asked to borrow one for a pen so I could begin to express in words how often she took my breath away.

After that was the aftermath of me from fourteen to sixteen wishing I could take back every word I wrote. Every memory was either a quick stick-and-move jab or a knockout-punch quote that to this day I can't come back from.

Ever since then it's just been re-runs of the same show day in and day out, I wake up with a smile flipped from last night's failure to pen anything new, and pick up the pieces that fell through the cracks from the day before.