I have never let anything go in my life.
Not the first girl I ever loved.
Not the first cat I ever lost.
Not the first time my mother hit me.
Not the first time dad ever left.
Maybe that is who I am destined to be.
Maybe I am the claw marks I make on the bars as they try to drag me away.
Maybe I live in the grooves.
Maybe every smear of blood is a signed confession.
Maybe, when I let go, I cease to exist.
What if I am meant to grasp and claw until my fingers are gone?