Holding on

Your absence had a way about it. It reached from its distance to tear at my lungs, clawing until for fight of breath I would weakly gasp those words. I. Miss. You.
You were an artist. Painting yourself bit by broken bit into the scene before erasing yourself from the narrative- always leaving empty holes in different places of my heart you’d decide to only for a time settle.
But my sisters had too loved artists. And I remember watching as they got sucked into the canvass of lies and guilt and the shame traced by he that was far too gone for far too long but too had a grip on their lungs.
And then I knew that about you there was nothing new. It was you that was weak, from my lifeblood you drew your identity. Holding on to what you didn’t think you wanted but afraid of what you would be if you didn’t.
Do you not know who you are?

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