My Angels

When I was little they told me in church

that I was never alone, even if it felt like I was.

 

I didn’t understand that I would need to remember this.

I didn’t understand that they were speaking to my future self.

 

When I was little they told me in church

that if I was sad, I just needed to pray.

 

I didn’t understand that I would need to remember this.

I didn’t understand that they were speaking to my future self.

 

When I was little they told me in church

that things would always work out, that everything would be ok.

 

I didn’t understand that I would need to remember this.

I didn’t understand that they were speaking to my future self.

 

When I was little they told me in church

to always believe, even when it was dark and I couldn’t see—

that there was a way out of misery—that someone would always

dry my eyes—that crying in the corner wouldn’t bring the light in.

 

I didn’t understand that I would need to remember this.

I didn’t understand that they were speaking to my future self.

 

One day, when I was sitting on the drain in my shower, with my hair over my face and my arms around my knees, with the doors locked—I remembered.

I said a prayer and opened the door. The angels held me in their arms. They brought movies and tissues and chocolate and love.

The angels were my roommates.

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