Not Ready to Forgive

My stomach turns, still empty since I never ate the plate of eggs I left in the living room.

I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at my wrist, my fingers tracing the thin, raised line of the scar. It’s usually the only thing that grounds me when panic takes over, when the weight of old memories threatens to break me.

It’s not doing much to help me right now.

The room feels too quiet, too still,