I could say that I hate you.
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.