“You owe me that much.”

No. I don’t owe you a place on my postcard wall, and I definitely don’t owe you a place at my table. I don’t owe you my winter sunshine or my summer sadness. Invitations to my house in the village or an open door in my apartment in the city. Indigo cups full of soup or affection in my voice. Love and time comparable to what I give others willingly. Explanations for why I drove away, or letters from the places I reach. The stray thoughts in my head or a notification every time I change the way I wear my hair.

I am done owing people, cities, communities, causes. But most of all, I am done owing the past.

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