I wrote her a letter detailing the wounds she caused

I wrote her a letter pleading with her

I wrote her a letter, the decades of pain bleeding through my fingers as I typed

I wrote her a letter hoping she would see, hear, feel me

I wrote her a letter wishing she would change, asking her to do the right thing

I wrote her a letter fantasizing she would listen

But I was only bleeding, I was only screaming, I was only wailing in despair

Asking for a healer, asking for a miracle

Asking the wrong person

I wrote that letter to wound her

I wrote that letter to free myself

I wrote that letter to cut open my own veins and to cut open hers

But I was only seeking the mother I always wanted

I was only searching for answers she wouldn’t give

She wasn’t going to break and she wasn’t going the bend

She was only going to bleed and hide and leave me more wounded than before

I saved the letter for myself

I read the letter again

I weighed my intentions and I weighed the cost

The tears could not be weighed

I gave the letter to God and I gave my pain to him

Only he could really hear me, and feel me, and heal me

Only he could stop the bleeding

Only he could give me the answers I need

Only he knows the depth, the width, the scope of it all

Only he could love us both the same

Only he could heal her wounds

Only he could make her see

Only he could make her the women I need

And maybe not

I keep that letter, and I keep it for me

One day everything in there will be redeemed

And it will serve as remembrance of what can be healed