Still Missing

by Chevy Stevens

Oh, and in case you were wondering? No, I wasn’t always such a bitch.

Avoiding this shit is like closing a door on

a raging river. Little trickles of water start coming through the cracks, and next thing you know, the door blows off. Now that I’m letting some of the water through, will the door come crashing in? If I unleash everything that’s inside me, will I go floating down the river with it?

When I wonder how I became the zombie I am now, how I could have gotten so lost, it always traces back to that moment—the moment I put my soul on the shelf to make room for the devil.

You can be as happy as you’ve ever been in your life, and shit is still going to happen. But it doesn’t just happen. It knocks you sideways and crushes you into the ground, because you were stupid enough to believe in sunshine and roses.

I’m like a wound barely sewn shut, and every time we talk the stitches break, the wound reopens, and I have to sew it back together.

As I wrapped him up like a mummy I kept telling myself he couldn’t hurt me anymore. Not one part of me believed it.

I remember reading once that if you have a bird that’s lived in a cage for a long time and you leave the cage door open, the bird won’t leave right away. I never understood that before.

“Annie, before, I was just being the same way with you as I’ve always been.” “I know. But I’m not the same.” She said, “None of us are,” and shut her door.