you used to be one of the rotten ones and i liked you for that
he said i’d been writing the same thing for years, like i’d not even grown an inch. i shutter to think that’s true. to acknowledge that this could all be the whining of some twenty something year old who never let go of hurt long gone. to think i am one of those three lettered heartaches walking the streets with wounds they chose not to nurse.
and when the death swells up around me, not even close enough to touch, i shudder and fall. sure that while death doesn’t scare me, it somehow intensifies my fear of life. i sit and wish for tomorrow, only to realize tomorrow seems no brighter, nor the day after…
i fear the words i have to say. i fear saying the wrong thing to you. to you who death reached out grabbed by the throat, while i was only near enough to cringe at the hold it had you in. i fear my weakness, that it’ll never be strong enough for you, when you need support the most. or that my selfish weeping will offend you, you who feel this loss so wholly.
so i write this, cause i never have been able to say the words that matter. not at your middle school bonfires, or trips out of state and not now when you need them more than ever.