My Sister; My Friend

You fucking asshole.
You unlucky bastard.

You have made me hate her.

Because the day you decided to use
cheesy one liners
before bringing my mouth to yours,
I was willingly to let you split open 
the meteor that had taken orbit in my chest,
hollowing and throttling forward,
ready to destroy all hopes
of a good thing ever happening to me again.

It had been eight months, love.
And I had accepted that I would not feel wanted 
again (if at all) for a long time.
Until you.
Until touching me was like 
oxygen,
sucked probably from my very lungs
because every time you did,
I got light-headed searching for breath.

But it’s okay,
because the day you walked away,
all of that air knocked right back into me,
until I was falling over myself at the idiocy of 
falling for you
because I was about to bear my soul
to someone who insisted that they wanted to see me.

Superficially.

Because every since then I
have let manifest inside me a newfound
hatred for myself.

Because there are days when
because of you,

I hate her.

I can’t freakin stand her perfection.

Because I envy her
and the way everyone just loves her,
falls at her feet begging
to be
inspiration,
consolation,
vindication for whatever
she needs and I am right
there
with them
willingly.

She says I give her too much credit,
and goddamn it,
someone has to.

I am good at certain things.
I have my own style of writing,
that is okay in comparison,
but not the charisma,
the ambition,
the congeniality
and understanding of someone
who insists I could hate her.

And I hate her.

Because I’m not her.

And I hate me.

Because I’m not her.

Because,
darling,
you never realized I was dealing with my own insecurities.
Resurrecting from a self you know prior
to learning the syllables in my name,
let alone that there are three,
when everyone calls me by two,
and you obliterate me to one
“kid”.

I didn’t think it was possible to become broken after everything he did.

But until you hate someone 
you love so much,
you care about so much,
because you,
as yourself,
were not them,
and therefore not enough

because you crave touch,

because you miss the rush

what he did to me was merely sin.

You did what you did to me,
and subsequently,
that’s the blow that
did me in.

Perhaps,
I needed you
in order to know
what it feels like
to be truly

broken. 

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