What I Wrote About This
Don’t write about this
she said, in what could’ve been read as an instruction but was rather a sign of desperation.
I won’t
I lied. Of course I did. I can’t promise anyone that, not ever. Besides
she’s not well. She doesn’t mean what she’s saying? How many times will I have to tell myself that when it hurts so bad I really shouldn’t be able to
listen to what they are telling me.
I couldn’t help myself, I cried too much, and when I insisted on that I was in a good place lately, I’m fine you did well you managed to sort me out right she looked at me with eyes so foreign so dark so - well - tormented by her own depression and simply said then why are you crying
and I knew I would always remember that: how she, too, pointed at my tears as a sign of what I can’t control, how feeble and transparent I am, how I can never fully control even an emotion as simple as grief.
I scroll through my 13 years old cousin’s facebook wall and look at her lists:
1 Thing I Like About Myself
1 Thing I Wish People Knew About Me
1 Thing I Wish To Change About Myself
My flat stomach
What I’ve learned and can’t seem to retell
My tears
In no particular order
