What Hides The Chipping Paint

Sitting on the floor, I stare up at the chipped tan paint. Maybe it used to be white, but years of abuse and over use have tainted it to its current tan color. Its been years since I saw this paint last. Years since I began the effort to cover it up. Littering the floor around me are the dozens of pictures that used to be taped there. Taped to that door. To the door I see every time I enter my room. Every time I leave. Every time I pass by. It felt surreal to take the pictures down. Snapshots of memories of laughter and friendship and love and joy. Snapshots of people who no longer have time for me. People I never see. People I'm adding to the long list of people I knew. Somehow I felt like a liar every time my eyes caught those happy faces, frozen in time and stuck on my door. Like a child holding on to a teddy bear long past the age at which I should have given it up. Relief flooded me when the first one came off with a satisfying pop. Then regret with the next. And nostalgia. And hurt. And then came the strength. With every memory off the door, I got stronger. Surrounded by the faces that haunt my memories and my dreams, I realize I no longer have time for people that have no time for me. I realize I am worth more than the occasional phone call or text. I am worth more than a few likes on Facebook. I will no longer feel hurt when I'm not tagged in a "best friend" post on Instagram. I will no longer be repulsed by the Snapchats I'm not included in. Because I am a young woman with a life and a goal and a mindset in which I have no time for trivial problems like abandonment. I am not one to throw away old photos simply because the people in them have changed. So for now, I'll stick them in a different place. Perhaps the pages of an overflowing smashbook or the clear plastic of a scrapbook, but no longer will they riddle my everyday life with questions and what ifs.