They took a large piece of me when they left.
It was to the point that I didn’t even know who I was afterwards.
I spent countless hours and sleepless nights trying to regain who I was before them, even though I knew I never will.
I wanted so badly to just lose the rest of myself in other activities, to distract myself from the reality that something was missing.
I used to give into those harmful desires. Slashing away those memories and watching them flow down the sink. I wanted to forget everything.
But the voices of those who truly love me prevented me from doing so.
Now, instead of destroying these worn down and ancient remaining pieces, I built on them.
I began losing myself in white sheets of paper where the led from my pencil danced across the page, creating intricate lines and complex patterns.
I lose myself in the smell of markers and feel of pastels on my finger tips, bringing infinite color and life to the page.
I found myself in the laughter shared with my friends and family.
I never found those old stolen pieces, but I found new ones.
I found them by getting lost in the fallen forest of my sketch book, following the sweet and kind words of those who truly matter to me.