I saw some bikes online in an ad for Target. Then I remembered:
The apartment on the 3rd floor. I was about 12 or 13 maybe. My dad bought me a bike. She couldn’t stand that I was given a gift for my birthday. If it wasn’t about her… well... it's nothing... she’s just hateful like that.
Her house was too clean. She couldn’t have a dirty nasty bike in there. She left it on the porch, unsecured. Of course it gets stolen. Of course she doesn’t care.
It was 6 years ago we laid her in her final resting place. I just thought I was free.. oh no. Every once in awhile these memories flood from a vile place. The angry self takes over; I become the person I hate the most. Squash it down once again before the real monster in me reveals herself.
Until next year without a thought, or a word, it tries to take me again.