When I got my first ever paycheck I did two things, I took my brother out to lunch and a bought myself a beautiful blue guitar.  It was my pride and joy, I took the greatest care tuning it, strumming it and taking lessons.  When I moved out of my parents home I sat it in the backseat with it to make sure it would arrive in my dorm safely. 
My parents secretly hated it I think, I caused them a bit of embarrassment when I treat my Sunday school class to my throaty interpretations of Bob Dylan protest songs.  I loved this guitar, playing it made me feel happy, feel accomplished and feel like an independent being. 
I could tell my mother was a little shocked, when she asked about it my junior year and I told her I sold it.  I didn’t give her any explanation, I only offered, “I sold it.”  I left out that I sold it at the urging of the worthless boyfriend I had picked up. Who though in his mid thirties didn’t want to pay for the gas it took come see me. I mean he was doing me enough of a favor just BEING with me. How could I be so ungrateful to the man who only hurt me because he cared just so DAMN MUCH! besides who did I love more, him or some stupid guitar. He told me I wasn’t any good at playing it anyway, I wasn’t really good at much of anything as far as he was concerned. He made me worth it, he made me normal.  I couldn’t chance losing him, what was I without him?  I wanted him so much so that I though maybe if the universe saw me give away something so precious to me, in order to keep him the powers that be would let me have him. I needed him!  and he needed me, well he needed me until he didn’t.  He needed me until I was too fat, too opinionated, to old.  I wasn’t his manic pixie dream. 
Then he was gone, and I was alone. I had nothing, I felt like nothing. I gave him everything and it still wasn’t good enough. Or so I thought.
Years later, I can’t even really remember his face, this person that was my world’s voice doesn’t make my heart flutter, or even make my fist clench in rage. He’s just a guy I used to know, who hurt me, who I got over. 
I know I don’t NEED to have this guitar back to get closure, or to let him go, or to love again.  I want this guitar back because I miss how it made me feel like ME. I miss the earthy smell of its wood mixed with the sterile nylon of its strings. I miss it mellow bass notes and clear treble.  I miss being my own back up band. I want it back because I want it, and what I want is valid. What I want doesn’t need to be important to anyone but me.  When I first bought my guitar I dreamed of a day when I could strum it on my own couch , in my own home, on my own schedule.  When I closed my eyes and thought of heaven, it wasn’t in the arms of some guy, or fufilling the wishes of any relative it was the simple satisfaction of being me in a space were all I needed to be was me.  Strumming on my guitar, figuring out my own anthem. 
Now, all I need is my guitar. 

When I got my first ever paycheck I did two things, I took my brother out to lunch and a bought myself a beautiful blue guitar.  It was my pride and joy, I took the greatest care tuning it, strumming it and taking lessons.  When I moved out of my parents home I sat it in the backseat with it to make sure it would arrive in my dorm safely. 

My parents secretly hated it I think, I caused them a bit of embarrassment when I treat my Sunday school class to my throaty interpretations of Bob Dylan protest songs.  I loved this guitar, playing it made me feel happy, feel accomplished and feel like an independent being. 

I could tell my mother was a little shocked, when she asked about it my junior year and I told her I sold it.  I didn’t give her any explanation, I only offered, “I sold it.”  I left out that I sold it at the urging of the worthless boyfriend I had picked up. Who though in his mid thirties didn’t want to pay for the gas it took come see me. I mean he was doing me enough of a favor just BEING with me. How could I be so ungrateful to the man who only hurt me because he cared just so DAMN MUCH! besides who did I love more, him or some stupid guitar. He told me I wasn’t any good at playing it anyway, I wasn’t really good at much of anything as far as he was concerned. He made me worth it, he made me normal.  I couldn’t chance losing him, what was I without him?  I wanted him so much so that I though maybe if the universe saw me give away something so precious to me, in order to keep him the powers that be would let me have him. I needed him!  and he needed me, well he needed me until he didn’t.  He needed me until I was too fat, too opinionated, to old.  I wasn’t his manic pixie dream. 

Then he was gone, and I was alone. I had nothing, I felt like nothing. I gave him everything and it still wasn’t good enough. Or so I thought.

Years later, I can’t even really remember his face, this person that was my world’s voice doesn’t make my heart flutter, or even make my fist clench in rage. He’s just a guy I used to know, who hurt me, who I got over. 

I know I don’t NEED to have this guitar back to get closure, or to let him go, or to love again.  I want this guitar back because I miss how it made me feel like ME. I miss the earthy smell of its wood mixed with the sterile nylon of its strings. I miss it mellow bass notes and clear treble.  I miss being my own back up band. I want it back because I want it, and what I want is valid. What I want doesn’t need to be important to anyone but me.  

When I first bought my guitar I dreamed of a day when I could strum it on my own couch , in my own home, on my own schedule.  When I closed my eyes and thought of heaven, it wasn’t in the arms of some guy, or fufilling the wishes of any relative it was the simple satisfaction of being me in a space were all I needed to be was me.  Strumming on my guitar, figuring out my own anthem. 

Now, all I need is my guitar. 

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