At the expense of a small wrist dance, I forgot what there was. I forgot the posture, the safety as words hug me, the comfort, the stream falling down my eyes as I hold a pen to write, how it takes the venom out of me, how it kills the illness, suffocates the worries and ease the pain. I forgot the healing at the end, how I read the self-made prescription, wipe up the tears and meet a sense of closure, moving on.
"Backing off" leaves you with a taste of defeat. Even the word says it well, going back, retreating. It gets hard to convince yourself, then, that it's not because you were deceiving, but because you had no other choice.
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