princesses, cartoons, and myths

I'm sure youve blocked me here. but in an effort to get my thoughts out as I grieve, I'd like the internet to know, for some reason.

It still doesn't really feel real. 6 years boiled down to a wednesday night paragraph after my dad checked in on you. Were you going to say anything if he hadnt? Were you going to let us die without a word?

Best friend, sister, twin flame, soulmate. Horseshit! All of it is. It's all it ever was.

How many friendships have you crashed and burned just to turn around and beg me for forgiveness. How many times have I said "don't do it again please" and you take advantage of that. Maybe I'm spineless, but you're a coward and a cunt.

I always defended you. It really was an abusive relationship the more I think about it. And this makes sense if I don't look at photos or read messages of us being happy. I said "it's not her fault" "she was abused" "she doesn't know any better". Neither did I, evidently, but I can rest easy knowing the love I gave was mine to give and not pulled.

I would shower you with love. In any way I could, just so you knew. And what did you do with it? You smoked it. You drank it. That's all you do with anything. Remember that summer?

I want to hurt your core. Not only am I sad, but I am livid. Down the road, in a year or so, I want it to tear you apart. I want the guilt to eat you alive, get her claws hooked on your soul and Pull. And Pull. And tear you to bits until you come crying saying how you wronged me yet again. And I will agree, I will nod, and smile, knowing that all you know is how to hurt and be hurt, to protect yourself. And it'll sting a little, not letting you back in. But it'll be for the best, because you've Always Done This. I want you to look yourself in the mirror and not recognize the girl looking back because you lost the one person who was there for you through ALL of it.

I hope if you see this, even for a minute, you think this is corny. I hope you think I overreact and overshare and overdo everything as I've always done. Because there was a version of you that loved the girl who did that. And that version of you is my best friend. And she did my tattoos. I don't know who the person was who sent me those messages last Wednesday, but it wasn't her.

"You're too happy." "You're too optimistic." "You need to be realistic."

And you're too miserable. Always devoid of love and yet convinced yourself that thats all you are.

I pity you, I really do. I know you think this was the grownup decision to do. Something to make you feel like you have control over your life as it spirals out of control and you lose everything that means something.

But why did you even bother to visit me?

i talk to her about my day and she doesnt reply. i tell her about work and she doesnt look up from her ipad. my sister comes home, says she's had a long day, mom opens up the patio and says "come, why dont you tell me about it."

im not a son. im not the oldest. im not the youngest. im merely trying to get by, scraping up pieces of attention where i can.

"I've had a bad morning" you're nice to everyone but me.

"I'm stressed out" why do you say things with no remorse?

"I love you" i have stopped believing you.

you have raised me to believe everything's my fault. my brother hating me. my sisters yelling at me. the way you treat me.

im sorry you raised me. im sorry i wasn't the best kid. im sorry i take up space and im sorry i dont know what im doing. im sorry im panicking im sorry you know me and most of all im sorry for continuing to care and try and cry over you and your malice.

19

My high school bedroom, that's all it is now. a bed in a room. laying there at midnight, the blue sheets reflecting the once-covered-in-art-and-flowers-and-ticket-stubs yellow walls and the silence echoing inside my chest. Home feels like home a million miles away, the tree outside my window calls my name, but it's not mine anymore. It's hers, from last year. June turns to July and my chest is heavy as my friends keep carrying on as if nothing has changed, and maybe I'm the only one who has.

The smoky haze of the sky at 3pm in the middle of nowhere leads to more haunting thoughts than the clear black and white of 3am as my memories are adjusted. Their memories altered for the sake of time, confuses my own.

"This doesn't really work with five people does it" are the words told to a girl who already feels out of place in her own hometown. Why do the smallest hometowns feel like the biggest city you'll ever be in when you step away for half a year?

I try to keep carrying on, be happy they're living life without me. But visiting feels heavy now. Repetitive, awkward. "How have you been" bad, wherever I go, I so desperately want to answer. Instead I tell them I've been carrying on, as always. Quit my job. Pros and cons to the city and the small town, but I wish I was somewhere else entirely.

New inside jokes that I'll never be a part of. New experiences they try to insert me in, but it doesn't really work with five people does it. How pathetic this must be to so desperately crave the life I used to live and god I feel insane but I cant help feeling like a stranger now. We don't pick up where we left off anymore, it's an uphill battle trying to put myself back in our story. I don't know if they realize it too but my god it's hard trying to live in a ghost of myself to try and hold on to something I thought I could never fucking lose.

My eyes are swollen from crying. I managed to only cry once while I was there, and I'll never admit to where I did it. It's a cursed, private thing, almost like i killed someone. I'm not on trial, but sometimes I'm testifying against myself. I did not cry, I am who I was, everything will be fine.

I am not a compass, I have no direction in my life. No prospects, no home. 19 sucks. My last summer of being a teenager. And all that happens is an ache, throughout all of my bones. Maybe 20 will bring me out West.

My high school bedroom stays untouched by my father. By my friends. A place of comfort, sadness, anger, love. A place of conversation and memories and those walls hold the ghosts of 18 year old me, 17 year old me, 16 year old me. 3 different people and the woman I am today wishes she could bring those girls back into her eyes and live the way she did, but she can't. My high school bedroom is a ghost of itself now, too. Months of decorations and memories taped to walls and strung along shelves taken down in 30 minutes at 3pm on a thursday in July.