The Way I Used to Be

by Amber Smith

And I’m trying so hard to just go back to my life. The way it used to be. The way I used to be.

Especially when you just got attacked in your own house—in your own bed—and you can’t even stand up for yourself there, either, the one place you’re supposed to be safe.

Just because someone has always been seen as this incredible person—this hero—it doesn’t mean that’s the truth. Or that’s who they really are,”

“Are you really okay?” I nod, even though I’m not sure if I am—if I ever will be.

Why do I feel like, sometimes, I have no one in the entire world who knows me in even the slightest, most insignificant way?

He has no way of knowing how sometimes it physically hurts to smile. How a smile can sometimes feel like the biggest lie I’ve ever told.

don’t know who I am right now. But I know who I’m not. And I like that.

Would anyone care? Would anyone even fucking notice? What if one day I just wasn’t here anymore? What if one day it all just stopped? What if? What if? What if? “EDY?”

His hands, his arms, can hold the pieces in place temporarily, maybe even for a long time, but he can never truly put them back together.

That’s not his job. He’s not the hero and he’s not the enemy and he’s not a god. He’s just a boy. And I’m just a girl, a girl who needs to pick up her own pieces and put them back together herself.

All these maybes swimming around my head make me think that “maybe” could just be another word for hope.