Dear Diary Pt. 3

I think the bones in my fingers have grown, long enough to hold a gun or a hand.

My mother comes to my door much less often. She knows my blood no longer sleeps in my veins but on the floor next to all the hours of darkness my mind has been so intimate with.

She calls every once in a while, we talk about how nice the weather is. We don’t talk about how her heart shattered the very first time he hit her. We don’t talk about the last time she found me half past dead, shaking in a pool of my own blood. We don’t talk about how they’ve decided to finally get a divorce.

 We don’t talk about much other than the weather these days.

She asks if I’ve been feeling any better since the last time. Even though she knows the truth, I tell her yes. I tell her that I’m fine, I tell her I’ve been working with my therapist.

I don’t even have a therapist.

We’ve been playing these charades for months now. Going back in forth with the hopeful notion that one of us will hang up first so that we don’t have to have that conversation. I don’t want to have that conversation. That would be an awkward conversation.

You pretending that I know you care and me pretending that you still have one goddamn ounce of love left in you. He took all of that when he left and you still can’t accept that.

So we pretend and pretend and pretend and hope one of us hangs up first.