The things he said to me when he wasn’t in his right mind, either drunk off his ass, or high. The things that seemed like truth to my eight-year-old self. You’re a bad kid. Your mother would’ve stayed if it wasn’t for you. If you weren’t here, we’d still be together, and I’d be happy. I push the thoughts deep down, rage rising in my chest. These are the things I don’t think about, the things I block from my mind and put at the bottom of my proverbial lock box.
