I still remember the day my friend sat me down
and told me my life story, this time void of
*******. She wouldn't let me make excuses.
There was no, "Yeah, but that didn't matter because--"
No, "They didn't really mean it."
She told me, "I know they ****** you up,
and you hate them for it. They got inside your head
and shook it like a snow globe.
And I know that now you can't trust people
or let people touch you without flinching
or be tickled without having a panic attack.
You were starved and thrown around
and told you were worthless.
You did the best you could.
And you were scared.
I know."
She knows.
I don't know if I can let it go,
but she knows.