Bad memories don't get to keep the things I love.
I've been taking back a lot of things recently that were stolen by trauma; things I loved that were turned into triggers. Songs. Places. Activities.
You don't get to keep my happiness. You are shitty. You get to keep the bad parts. My bad memories. My bad feelings. My pain and anger. You do not get to keep the music that makes me dance. You do not get to keep the ocean view that comforted me. You do not get to keep my little trinkets, or that cute bracelet, or my favorite pair of pants. You do not get to keep the times I had fun before you came along. You do not get to keep the stores I used to shop in. You're not good enough to have my good things, my precious things. You can keep the dredges and the grime and the darkness. You don't get to steal my stars or my sunshine. You don't get to steal my free time or the wandering of my mind. It's was never meant for you to have, and you thought taking it meant you owned it. Well if you can steal, so can I.
I'm taking all of it back.