I have a heartful of sorrows and never once have I had the courage to speak them out loud. But maybe I can type them, because that's really all my poetry is, right? Condensed cries to a faceless blame?
I suppose so.
I loved you more, let's leave it at that. Even when you were soaking your bones in gasoline and carving your stomach hollow with a scalpel, I loved you more. Wholeheartedly and unforgiving, like I always have. I'm an idiot, it's a well-established fact.
And I don't know why I'm writing this to you. I don't, let's be honest here, and I have always just been pieces of a puzzle never assembled - actually, you know what, let's scrap the puzzle piece metaphors. I'm done with them. I guess I'm more like the nightmares I had about you that were so bad I had to sleep on the couch to get any rest at all.
Funny how a sibling can be more like a spectre.
We both would have been better off alone, if I'm going to go with the brutal-truth route, and don't even try to deny it. It would have yielded better results, and maybe wouldn't end up with my bloodstained skin and you being put on suicide watch at camp, of all places, all those years ago. Sometimes I wonder about the incriminating position they must have found you in to cart you off home when "home" was more than three hours away. By bus.
I remember the days when the eldest and I would try our best to subtly check your wrists and remove the pills and matchsticks from your bedside drawer. Now we slide your rattling white bottle across the countertop in the mornings.
Or, well, we did. She's gone now. You remain. I don't quite know how to feel about this. But since I was always the last resort, second choice, a small vindictive part of me crows that you will finally know how it feels.
We've both got demons, you as-hole, you were just worse at hiding them. I know what it looks like when you yell at me, when you refuse to talk to me for days, when you don't answer our parents.
It looks like depression.
And it is.
But don't you realize? Please, you can't drive them off. They all leave eventually. This is all we've got left, and I'm clinging to it, but you're pushing at it with everything you've got. Don't do this to me. They're all gone in the end.
You know that I'm going to be the one left behind. I always am. Please don't do this to me.
You're going to be gone, and I'm going to be left here, replaying a memory and trying to stop loving what is, essentially, a shadow. You never had any substance.
And isn't that just a plate of ironies.