I find my thoughts tripping over small occasions upon which people have found fault with me. Slights and rejections that I have perceived. Looking at photos, I remember an impatient sigh that that pricked my quilt. They walked ahead and never looked back. None of these are insults or intended to offend. None of them. I did not need to bruise. But I chose to, and have, and when I run fingertips across these memories, those bruises quiver in their sleep.
There are memories here too, to shore up these failing walls.
But it is cold. There is no conviction.