I take down an empty box from the top shelf of my closet to fill it with memories, hope, circling monologues, sadness, and remorse. I keep with me the anger and frustration as those remaining sharp edges still have use. I wrap up the filled box and bury it behind a locked door deep within the darker reaches of my heart.
It is metaphoric. So hard to let go. So unwilling to disconnect. I must move on.
A friend at a bar on a Wednesday night sternly counsels independence. “You must learn to love yourself again. Be you own best friend. At the end of the day, you will always be alone.” My maudlin sorrow serves me poorly, as joy, confidence, self-sufficiency, and cockiness attract a mate. I have wallowed and sighed so much over someone who no longer gives a fuck.
I’ll try. I’ll shine brightly. I’ll roar mightily. I do love myself.