Home Is Where the Bodies Are

by Jeneva Rose

I type out a long message full of anger and grief. I tell her how mad I am for her not being here. I curse her for not visiting Mom before she passed. I accuse her of being selfish and weak. And then I delete the whole message and stow my phone back in my pocket. Some things are just better left unsaid.

Even if I tell her no, she won’t believe me. You can’t trust people with an addiction because in many cases, like mine, their addiction is stronger than their word.

It’s been years, more than years, and he hasn’t changed. But I think when you fall in love with a person and never fall out of love, they always look the same as how you first saw them.

“Feeling dead while your body still walks this earth is far worse than being dead.”

A mixture of hope and grief is toxic, like combining ammonia and bleach. On their own, you can stand it at least for a little while, but together, it’s deadly.”

Let me change quick . . . I wish that applied to more than just outfits.

Sometimes you have to lose parts of yourself just to survive.

I’ve learned there’s a lot of things you can bury, but the past isn’t one of them.

remember asking myself how I got so lucky. I really took in the moment, not realizing I’d never have one like it again. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. We were just a happy family enjoying a home-cooked meal together. After learning the truth, that’s what disturbed me most of all—that nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

They say it’s the truth that will set you free, but they never specify whether telling the truth or knowing the truth will give you your freedom.

I spent my whole life being nervous up until I realized that life happens in between the beats of our own heart, and if it thumps too fast, there’s no space for us to live.

“It felt like my whole life had been a lie, but knowing the truth made sense of the life I had lived.” She arches a brow. “What do you mean by that?” “I mean that it allowed me to give myself grace. I didn’t excuse myself. But I forgave myself for all the things I’d done wrong,

Breathing in the present, breathing out the past.

The best stories come from those that are flawed, broken, really. Those who have endured trials and tribulations. Those who have faced the world and come out on the bottom. Only they can tell stories worth listening to, for they have had more than one beginning, more than one middle they’ve dragged themselves through, and more than one ending . . . and despite it all, their story continues.