And when they said write an essay, all I can think of is her. Maybe I’ll write about her: how she lifted me up, broke me down, inspired all these half-written lyrics that end up balled into mistakes in the bottom of my wastebasket. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so honest. Maybe this isn’t really an essay, but a journal entry. Hell, maybe it’s a suicide note. From the person I was, addressed to the person I will be, read by the person I am. Fractured pieces of myself I’m not sure what to do with. They all come to the same conclusion anyway:
What the hell am I supposed to do without you?
I can’t sleep. I can’t even get out of bed in the morning because I’m so heavy with the thought of you in between the sheets. I don’t eat anymore. Bacon reminds me of our mornings together, and eggs are no longer my favourite because that was something you and only you knew. When you left, it ceased to exist. I know I don’t make sense, don’t tell me that, I already know. And maybe you’re right. Maybe I was never kind enough, or smart enough, or pretty enough. But really, who gives a s***? Because I did everything for you. Everything.
I’m such a screwed up person that I will go home thinking every night that maybe I deserved this. That the reasons you left, all the maybes crashing through my brain, are things that I caused and not the things you manipulated me into. Why didn’t your mother ever tell you not to f*** around with other people’s emotions? Pretend to love me, so I’ll buy you the stupid mug you wanted. Abandon me, because your cable show came back on and it’s more interesting and less complicated than I’ll ever be. I am not a game for you to play and shove back on the dusty shelf when Father finally comes home.
Does it really matter to you, what I think? Probably not. Just as it doesn’t matter that this isn’t really an essay so much as a letter. It’s irrelevant because you leak into everything that I do, poison all the thoughts I write down till the paper is permeated with you. Don’t say I deserved it. I know now, it was you. When you looked into my eyes and said that you wanted me, I always felt broken. And now I know why. You only ever wanted me. You never loved me, or her, or anyone. Because to you, the world is full of maybes, possible potential things for you to use. The word people has become synonymous with possession, and you don’t even feel sorry. I never believed you when you said you were a bad person. I guess that was naive. I shouldn’t have ignored the warning label, even if I was starstruck. “Warning, contents may be selfish and manipulative, use at your own discretion.”
Don’t pretend with me. I know you, and you’ve never been a good liar. You tried to break me, because it was fun, because it was easy. But I won’t forgive just because you’re too easy to forget. I don’t need you anymore, I’m over it. When you come back, begging for me, I will smile and only say:
“Maybe.”