i was once called a dreamer.

our lives are filled with memories from strangers we once called friends. twenty years down the line, these people will remain the ages of the memoreis i hold dear in my brain. they will forever be the version of them i have created. 

i knew i was no longer a writer when seeing a document in “arial” font did not bother me.

for as long as i can remember, it’s always been “times new roman” for me. “times” to start a new book, to start a “new” idea, delve headfirst into a world of “roman” gladiators, aliens, and more.

times new roman has been with me through friendships, bad grades, sleepless nights, new friends, abandonned books, and school projects.

it was an old friend, one that never left my side, and today, i started the process of saying

it hurts to see you be what you promised me

to another family.

to see them cling to you for their happiness

and recognize your face.

it hurts that you chose drugs over me,

but you’re there for them.

and still, i can see the patterns of my youth.

i see the hushed whisper and toned down anger.

i see the closed doors and unanswered calls.

i see the secrets.

it hurts for me to watch you be there for them.

a parent.

a father.

a figure.

jokingly you said that, “the next time your sister visits, she’s never going to leave. can’t stand seeing my daughter’s heart broken.”

where does that put me?

you watched as you broke my heart,

year after year,

until i refused to go on.

you watched as you gaslit my sister

and treated her like she was the chosen one,

even when you never showed up.

how many holidays can i recount of her staring out the window, waiting for you to amount

to a father?

to what you’re graciously being to another.

you’re getting scared again, aren’t you?

you’ve abandoned one family,

one set of two,

your new family won’t be so new

without you.

i see the signs

and your s\o can see them, too.

you’re getting scared again, aren’t you?

how much longer until

you’re no longer known as dad or daddy?

how much longer until

you stop being a family man?

you lasted longer this time,

congrats.

if there was a father of the year award for trying,

i’d give it to you this time around.

watching your interactions?

[new user] has commented on your story

[new user] has challenged you to a duel!

i use to belong to a writing site.

people knew each other’s writing styles like the backs of their hand or the way they knew how to avoid all the cracks on the stairs.

people knew each other’s lives and dreams and talked frequently about achieving them and their future plans. most wanted to be writers or study the arts. some wanted stem jobs and that was okay too.

i used to belong to a writing site.

i no longer write. the ideas shrivel and die, they wither and writhe, and i fantasize about how

i used to belong to a writing site?

i can’t write papers, or poetry, or instagram captions. yet, seemingly millions of dreams ago, i wanted to write something. something so concrete people would covet it, hushed whispers would haunt its name, and the spine would be heavy with annotations.

i used to belong to a writing site.

we were a team. a dream team. team dreamer. team 405. team euphoria. and so many more. we were champions, gathering points and popularity with every chapter we wrote, every piece of soul we poured into the paragraphs.

i used to belong to a writing site.

skipping homework to chat and plan surprise birthday events. changing the site’s logo and playing tricks on one another. we were best friends that

used to belong to a writing site, but now—

now i’ve forgotten their names.

it takes me a minute to recall who wrote what story or made which comment. it takes me a second to remember why i have a person on snapchat that i haven’t talked to in six months. it takes me a moment to figure out why something like william taft being stuck in a bathtub reminds me of batman in a bathtub.

i’m starting to forget. and i’ll never belong to the site again.

and soon i too will be a memory that takes a while to remember.

and some days, i wanna breathe fire, i wanna see billows of smoke pour from the concaves of my lungs. and other days,  i despise the cold, and the frozen air that hangs between us, strung together like unsaid words, and once cherished memories.  i want to listen to 2000s pop punk and skate around town, getting glares from grandmas, as i create a legend surround myself. and sometimes, i can’t get out of bed, and i can’t complete assignments, or eat, or upkeep, or sleep.