The Warbler

by Sarah Beth Durst

There’s a trick to compartmentalizing emotion-laden memories, and I’ve nearly mastered it. It’s the “nearly” that I have to watch out for. “Nearly” can kill you. It killed my mother.

I’ve always lied to myself just as much as I lie to everyone else. It’s easier that way.

Shadows embrace me, as they always do.

It wasn’t his fault that this knot of resentment kept twisting and growing inside of her. She never told him it was there.

Point is: you weren’t swept along by any tide. You dove into this ocean yourself.”

She hadn’t built the cage, but she’d walked into it.