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In the End, This is All I Have

In the end, this is all I have.

None of the things I made are here. None of the friends, or enemies remain. For everything I did right, I did something else wrong. For everyone I loved, I hated more away. I pushed the rock just to have it break my bones.

This is all I have. No souvenirs, no postcards, no trophies. I’m standing alone on the mountain I failed to climb. The air is thick at the bottom, and it swings like a sledgehammer. The wide round blunt strikes me in the gut. I tremble, and swing again. I stumble, but ask for more.

My memories melt in the midday sun, like books burning in my head. The edges are blurry, as if I stood up fast and the blood raced away. The best chapters are charred, and unreadable.

I didn’t forget you, not you. I forgot all the little things that made you. Were they red boots or blue? One sugar or two? The difference is in the details, and the all details are gone.

In the end, this is all I have

Published in Fiction

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