I’ve left a little piece of me to die with everyone I no longer know. It’s been the hardest feeling I’ve come to terms with in this lifetime, and probably the next. There are dead pieces of everything all around me. Pieces of myself that I miss, pieces of people I loved, pieces of memories I can still feel, pieces of hurt that I carry in my pockets. Every so often I visit the graveyards. I grieve my people and all of the places I’ve been with them. I mourn all of the bridges I burned because of the girl I used to be, the attitude I used to own, the emotions I used as a weapon. I visit and I hurt myself by imagining a world where all of these things were still alive. Here lies a girl I knew once: There’s this theory that with every decision you make, a part of you breaks off and continues in the other direction - creating an infinitely long line of different pathways in life. Many of mine lay here. A version of me who got that one job and left that place, a version of me who got married
I have absolutely no idea who I am. Some days, I hear stories about me, aged 6, picking flowers to bring to mom while she does her makeup in the ensuite. Other days, I remember red-faced tantrums, screaming at the top of my lungs, ready to burst wide open into flames. I remember being bullied so, so badly. And I remember wondering how badly I messed up to deserve it. I remember talking badly about that girl, and feeling really guilty for doing it. Sometimes I am the girl who hosts parties, sometimes I am the girl who leaves them early. Sometimes I’m a good friend and other times I am poor, terrible, no-good friend. Sometimes I beg for people to love me, because I have so much good inside of me. Sometimes I wonder why anyone at all could love a monster like me. Sometimes I sit in my apartment and I can almost see myself, aged 11, walking in through the door and crawling into bed beside me. She hates her hair being touched, but loves her back tickled, and I listen to her tell me about ho