Sometimes it feels like the cracks are just spackled over poorly and painted with bright colors.
Sometimes this new normal still feels like I'm a stranger in a foreign land.
Sometimes it seems that I only make the cracks worse, picking at them and prying the edges back.
Sometimes it feels like it was just yesterday; the blow to the chest, the very breath being sucked from my body. Cracked. Fissured. Broken.
Sometimes the crack sits like a lump in my throat waiting to break open again. Sometimes I stand still, thinking if I just don't move the crack won't affect me, us, anymore.
I brought it up to you. The crack that we share. I finally told you that sometimes I'm still so angry about it I can't see straight. You defended him. You said it was a mistake. You said I didn't understand.
Sometimes I think I'm the only one that can still feel this crack. That I'm the only one that can see the discoloration of the brightly colored touch up paint.
Sometimes I wonder if my staring at the crack is keeping the crack from healing completely.