I'm too young to write a memoir, but here, let me do it anyway.
I cannot recall the last time I was able to differentiate between the sensation of touch and the sensation of pain. I have to stop myself from envying those who have lost their ability to feel anything at all.
My muscles are weak lately. So weak that my body feels numb all of the time and moving feels unnatural and strenuous and dangerous. Most of my nightmares include me being unable to control my muscles at all, as if I would become paralyzed from the neck down while walking, or my eyes would suddenly refuse to open.
I wonder if this is how you felt during your final year. Is this why you collapsed in on yourself so often? Why you’d fall to your knees, gasping for breath and clawing at the skin above your heart, howling to me about its weight every night? I wonder if this is why you’d flinch when we hugged. Did my gentle, girlish tugs on your hoodie feel like sledgehammers to your fragile bones? Did my lips feel like the flames of his lighter to your scars? I’m sorry. I understand. My skin and my bones can’t tell the difference between love and hate anymore either. But like you said, where our bodies will fail us, our minds will take us, and our brains are strong enough to tell the difference.
I want to show you all the scars I’ve received since you’ve been away so you can hug me close to you and tell me not to worry about them or hate them because they make me no less beautiful. I’ve been waiting for the day that I could hold your ear to my heart like you had done for me so often in the past, and I could laugh into your soft, curly hair and tell you how hypocritical you were being towards your own imperfections.
When you left, you were older than me. We’re the same age now. I never wanted to grow older than you, I only wanted to grow older with you.