My sister asked me once why I wrote about these things. Why I didn’t let them go. It wasn’t phrased as sound advice. Just disdain. My weakness revealed to the world. I told her that we are not all made of stone. As hard as nails. Happier to forget than seek answers to what or why we are. She’s forgotten her own self harm, her many ‘no it wasn’t!’ suicide attempts. The pain and fear she caused her family. It’s like it never happened. All compassion and empathy gone. Needle felted inside one of her makes. Denied. Forgotten. Buried. But spitting venom at her lapdog. Her provider of an easy life. Her means of transformation. Her dart board. Her partner.