the weeks after i stopped crying myself to sleep, nights became smiles of embracing my sadness. i learned to become whole with a part of me gone. i learned to be okay with not being ‘all-there.’ you stopped flooding my mind, instead; metaphors did. i asked god, why, would he keep me writing about something that wasn’t there anymore. “what is the ******* point!” i screamed to the ceiling, to view out of my window, to myself. maybe i have gone mad. haywire, bizarre, who cares. because the nights i turned my light back on and began to write are the nights i learned the most. about living. i’m questioning god like i questioned my father on the brown paper bag he brought into the car, full of something i’d later learn destroyed many things more than my trust for him. i’m questioning god like the scar on my left hand and why i don’t remember how it got there. i’m questioning god like i question my reflection, like i used to know who it was, how i don’t anymore.