In Meaningful Ways

allthathasledushere:

If there’s an infinite number of parallel universes,
as they say,
then surely there’s one in which I can carry a pitch,
you don’t feel the compulsive need to put tiny,
knotted braids into my already unmanageable hair,
and one where you and I are
the sisters we’ve always claimed to be.

I could say that I hate you.
And
that would be partially true.
                      But I also miss you. I miss you bad.
              Fuck, now I’m crying as I write this. I. Don’t. Cry. I’m crying. Fuck you.
Let’s mourn the passing of a friendship — its
deterioration, if you will — because we were friends for
months and months of the calendar, years. Until we weren’t.

At first, I felt badly but knew it to be “right.”

     Then I chanted, “You had it coming,” but maintained that I harbored no ill will.

              Then I screamed about what I bitch you are. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. 

The hate stems from your conditioning.
      Of course I’m a whore.
      All of my choices are poor ones because I’m incompetent. 
      I’m a fuckup. 
      Empathy is for suckers.
      She’s a bitch.                           (Like me.)
I redefining myself, outside of the shadow of your words but 
these things take time (and tears and good proper sunlight).

I need your manipulation, stipulations and condemnation like I need
a hole in my head;
what I miss is who we you were. 
The more idealist image I’d conjured in my head.
You were never her, I see that now, but you
also weren’t the venom-filled smile you wear now.

I’m happier, freer, without you. Honestly.
My friends are fantastic.
The sun still shines.
The times are good.
But I worry about you on occasion
because life isn’t as kind to you.
You reap what you sow
             but that doesn’t take away the sting of briars
             slapping across your skin. 

If there’s an infinite number of parallel universes,
as they say,
then surely there’s one in which I can carry a pitch,
you don’t feel the compulsive need to put tiny,
knotted braids into my already unmanageable hair,
and one where you and I are
the sisters we’ve always claimed to be.

It’s funny,

you see,

because

you and I,

we don’t

talk much

anymore.

At all.