I remember fairy houses and rain.
The dust and that smell and as I write it I realise why I hated it for so long.
Because that hill stunk of it.
The smell of the coming storm.
Now I love it.
Because no one asks you why you’re under a blanket,
Crying to sad movies when it’s raining out.
You don’t have to tell them it’s because you want to feel sad, instead of numb,
Because they all leave you behind.
And childhood trauma and your first heartbreak keep screaming in your ear that he’s tired of your texts and that you are insignificant in the scheme of things.
I do what I do because I am good at it but now I’m wondering if I could have been better because really I’m not good at anything at all.
And maybe people want me but they don’t want to stay.
And I’m tired of picking up my own pieces because I’ve put them back together so many times that the edges are worn and they don’t fit the same.
And I can’t write a verse anymore because the thinking can’t stop and I wonder which is worse;
The fact that he hasn’t opened my message yet, or that he read it forty three minutes ago.
He doesn’t mean anything by it.
Maybe her wanting me dead before I turned ten is worse, but she wasn’t medicated then,
But still I find it hard to get rid of that feeling in my gut when I think of the hill and him not coming back.
Or her leaving me when I needed her most, maybe what’s worse is that I could never forgive her.
But why’d she have to forget me and why am I always the least important there and why do I always just accepts it as if it’s fair.
And why did I let him hurt me so much that every time I feel an intimate touch I am bought to tears at some moment afterwards because after that they are gone.
But they only keep doing it because I keep letting them and I wish I could burn away the pain with the branches when I’m drunk, wondering if I’ll ever be loved, but I’ve tried that.
And I want someone to understand but who could understand that being left is normal or why the thought of bathtubs on sunny days makes me sick and sometimes luke-warm pie is the only thing
that can remind me that it’s not all bad things.
Who could understand all that?
Not even me, who feels it like a second heartbeat.
Does he ever think of me?
Does my brother ever wish he’d never left?
Does my sister ever wish she could take it all back?
I wish that I could start over.
But could I tell her, with her bright eyes, not to love too much, because even your mother and father will break your heart and the first boy to ever touch you will break you so bad,
you’ll never stop waiting for the second to do the same.
Could I tell her with her curls, that she will never love herself and that she will probably never trust anyone else to either.
Could I tell her with her fairy houses,
That it is so fucking hard, that feeing lost and alone is as normal to her one day, as hunger and thirst.
And loss is just as common as crossing the street and that her dreams won’t come true and acceptance isn’t real and that even though he will call her to tell her that he is still here,
she’ll never quite believe it.
How would I tell her she is the only permanent thing that she will ever have.
That and her fear.
It’s the only thing that will never leave.