You Tell Me

You tell me again. And I turn on you and with my eyes, bold and burning and in agony, I cry out. "Do you think I don't realise?" You suddenly understand that you made a wrong move. You step back. "Do you think I don't realise? Do you think I don't look at the picture on my wall every single evening, and remember him?"

"I didn't mean it like that, you know I didn't mean it like that." But you didn't think. You didn't, did you? I want to shout at you. I want to scream and tell you that I hate you, but I won't. Because I shouldn't. Because this isn't your pain to bear and you couldn't ever understand. You don't know how close we were, the conversations we had that nobody else understood.

"Do you think I don't have to bite my lip to stop the tears every time I see his name? Or how about the time when I walked into the maths room and the poster wasn't there any more?" You just stare at the floor. You're useless. Broken. You don't know what to say.

Of course you don't. It's me and I'm always hard to understand. For goodness sake, just have some sensitivity! Have some love! Don't mention people that are dead in such an offhand way when you sitting beside their granddaughter, who's trying not to cry in front of friends for fear of being asked questions. Don't talk about them as though they mean nothing when you haven't got a clue.

Don't ever, ever, ever tell me again that I don't have to be so emotional. Don't ever, ever tell me again that he's dead. Because I know that, right? I have a flipping picture of him on my wall beside my bed! I live with that knowledge every single day!

I know it wasn't your fault. But next time you need to think before you tell me.

The End

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