dear death,
when i sit and think about my mind, i'm scared. scared of the lines it draws between one thing and another. scared of the barbed wire desperation it encircles us in. our friendship, infinitesimally small, yet insurmountable to me. a mountain carved with a kitchen knife on my mother's bad day; shaped into the cliff that I jump from again and again called (conclusions).
you don't call.
you don't write.
(you hate me.)
you used to leave notes for me. pinned beneath windshield wipers, scribbled on the backside of coupons. but now there are only the empty flyers from the supermarket. ads from the local car wash. i know you're busy. i tell myself, "she cares, she just can't right now, don't worry."
and i don't call.
and i don't write.
(but i worry.)
missing hurts double when you do it alone. should i call you? tell me. i will.
i immortalized you in poems. without you, there'd be no me. "don't do it," you said, by the kitchen counter. my hand on the knife. my mother's bitter words still ringing in our ears. "she's the one who's broken." and i wrote that, to spite her, in ink instead of blood.
no one understands us.
i was your friend, and you were mine. "you must only think of good things," the pastor said. but i did, and i was, and we were.
we met, often. on my bed the night my dog died. when the world went to war on tv. and in the hospital, lying on a gurney in the hall. there was a room. the man inside flatlined, and you leant on the doorframe, watching. wrapped in a warm blanket, i asked if you'd come for me, too? "no, darling, i've come to wait with you until your surgery is over."
(because that's what friends do.)
at thirteen, you helped me grow up. at sixteen, you gave me identity; after that girl i knew from my church, poisoned the bathtub with her blood instead of ink. You took my indecisive hand once again, and said, "don't do it, it's not your fault."
at eighteen it crumbled. i saw you in the cancer. i asked you to help her through it. you just looked sad and stood over my grandmother (the one person i loved more than you), stroking her sparse hair.
you didn't attend the funeral. you weren't invited.
i didn't call.
i didn't write.
(but i wanted you to fight for me.)
now, my heart jolts at paper scraps left on my windshield. but they're not yours. not anymore. hope is the worst. i'm scared of my mind and how badly it needs—
to draw (conclusions) between one thing and another. like the line between you and my grandmother. you were her friend too, weren't you? and you rescued her.
(so why not me?)
i'm sick of myself. of the pathetic waste of want and wishes—hoping you'll remember me. but i can't make it stop. our friendship, infinitesimally small, yet insurmountable, sits, weighted, on my shoulders.
dear death, i'm writing to tell you i've decided. i'll see you soon.
love,
me
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