“I have held on to the key for all these years and have never been brave enough to use it. Or cowardly, most would probably argue.” And now I hold it in my hand as I stare at this door. Tears in my eyes, I can hear the drops of blood falling from my clenched fist to the ground, the key burrowing inside my skin.
I have held on to the key for all these years and I am tired. I want to use it so badly, but every time I think about it, I feel your hands on my shoulders, both of you whispering to me: “don’t.” And I don’t.
I wish you would shut up and let me rest.