A Quiet Bitterness

Sometimes, someone’s name comes up in conversation.
Or they slip into my thoughts without warning.
And even though they’re no longer here, something in me still stirs. A sharp edge. A bitterness that never quite dulled.

It’s strange, holding resentment toward someone who’s gone.
Especially when they’re someone others speak of with love.
Someone dear to people I care about.
And I understand that. I respect it deeply.

But I also carry my own memory.
And in that memory, I was just a child.
I didn’t understand the weight of words back then — only how they landed.
I never got the chance to ask why it was said, or what it meant.
It just stayed.

I’m not angry now.
Just… aware. Of what was, and what never got to be healed.

Sometimes, love and resentment exist side by side.
Not to cancel each other out, but to remind me that being human is rarely simple.

I don’t need to untangle it all today.
I can just sit with it.
Let it be a part of the landscape.

No fixing.
No rush.
Just here.

Mosslight