Note: for R & S.
I want to chase out all the anger in my body like a father who gave up on loving me years ago. Chase out this anger because I’m not supposed to like anger, I’m not supposed to like showers so hot I nearly faint like my sister one day last year. Collapsed like cardboard, a dull thud followed by my mother’s panic she wears like a glove, suffocating us with her love.
My sister doesn’t talk about that day other than to mention how she’s gonna work at the gym one day. She almost didn’t get a membership because on the trial form you have to tick a box stating that you aren’t prone to spells of dizziness or fainting. But last thing I heard was that she lied on her form so I think it all worked it. Anything for money is my sister’s motto, and I don’t mean that she’s a stripper but more like a stripper of pride and self-esteem.
My sister likes to pretend that she doesn’t need me but when I got back from France she made me tiramisu so either she likes me or she really likes desserts. Maybe now’s not the best thing to mention that she wants to be a pastry chef.
She really loves my father, who has no idea. Everyone loves to tell me that my father is the cause of my depression. I met this really cool psychiatrist once who even believed in the 27 club but I never saw him again because my mother was scared I would develop transference. Transference, according to google, is the redirection of feelings and unconscious desires from childhood to another person. Well, my whole life is an episode of transference. I have this thing, where I tend to fall in love with people that are emotional fish tanks, minus the fish and the emotions. Or if I’m the fish, then they’re the tank and they’ve emptied out all the water and I can’t breathe on my own. I mean, I like you. Why do I believe I want to die all the time?
Plato says that “at the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet.” Well, what he doesn’t mention is that once they’ve inevitably broken your heart, you can’t unbreak it yourself, but poems are really good companions to cry on.
Poems don’t tell you it’s your own fault. Poems don’t tell you to stop being so dramatic. Poems don’t tell you not to make a scene like your ex-best friend who always told me she didn’t see the point in living right up to the day she cut me out of her life. I guess I should have noticed, but you don’t see the red flags when they’re small and smiling as they tell you they kinda wish their suicide attempt worked. You don’t call them flags, you call them friends, and friends share things, right? Friends don’t tell you, “Sorry, I don’t think I can be that kind of friend.” Friends don’t treat you like you’ve stopped existing and they’re only one who can hear your voice.
I guess I just wanted her to be okay so much that I didn’t realize that she wasn’t. I loved her just the way she was, and I didn’t care if you loved me because I knew she did, and I know she manipulated you but I loved her,
Just like I love you, and it hurts me when I see you don’t. It hurts me just like she hurt you.
When she said I miss you, I know that I may not miss her but I want to chase this anger back to a simpler universe. I want to stop time and rewind the sun to rise and fall with her voice. I want- I want to be so angry I don’t miss anyone anymore. I want to cut off my own hand to stop it bleeding so damn much. I’m just trying to write a poem, I’m not trying to think about her, but it just is. Just like I think about you. So here it is: I loved her. Stop haunting my dreams, I don’t want to see you. You know I would have taken a bullet for you. Fire the gun on me, empty all of the bullets out. Light me with a lighter flame and burn me with it. Burn me and I’ll be forever caught on fire for you. Maybe the fire would create a portal in time. Maybe I’d fall in as I’m walking home one night. Maybe I’d see you in the street, and we’d hug instead of looking away.
Or maybe I’d no longer notice you as I take photos in the dark.
Maybe then I could be unburdened of you.