I pulled the knife out of my heart… and stared at it.
I embraced the pain—felt every tug as I pulled it out slowly.
I did it slow on purpose…
So I could feel it.
So I could remember it.
One last time.
Though the pain was agony—there was hope in it.
Because this time, the knife had an end.
No longer a surprise wound. No longer an outside force.
This time, I chose the pain.
I turned your weapon into my own.
It burned—buried so deep from years of strikes.
But this… this removal was intentional.
Purposeful.
A reclamation.
As I pulled the knife out, I remembered.
Everyone who put it there.
Every strike.
Wound after wound.
Tear after tear.
Pain after pain.
The knife was halfway out.
I found comfort in the agony.
Because I wanted to remember.
I didn’t want to forget.
Not this time.
I wanted to remember what it did.
Who did it.
How it felt.
And how I survived.
But now… I didn’t have to brace for the next strike.
I only had to finish this one.
So I kept pulling.
It hurt more.
It became unbearable.
But I wanted to feel it.
I needed to feel it.
Because this time, I was in control.
The knife was almost out.
My body screamed.
Shutting down.
Shaking.
But my mind was stronger.
Because I had survived worse.
I had endured this pain over and over again—
At the hands of those meant to protect me.
So this… this suffering was sacred.
It was mine.
And no one would ever hold that power over me again.
Because I chose this.
The knife was almost out.
One inch left.
And then I paused.
I remembered who I was letting go of:
The version of me that accepted the blade.
The one that held onto the pain.
The one that thought this pain was her identity.
So I said goodbye.
Goodbye to the story.
Goodbye to the suffering.
Goodbye to the past.
I closed my eyes…
Ready for the final tug.
And then…
The pain disappeared.
The knife disappeared.
The agony… gone.
The suffering… lifted.
I opened my eyes—
And I saw God.
He said:
“I got it from here.”
“It wasn’t the pain that freed you… it was your choice.”
“Your choice to let go. Your choice to take back your power. Your choice to end the story.”
And with that…
The knife no longer existed.
—Farewell to my past.