D
Deleted member 26920
Happy Birthday.
When I was little, I remember sitting on the floor with you, a mess of puzzle pieces scattered around us. It was my birthday, and you told me that the next day was yours. You told me about how we were almost "birthday buddies," about how close we were to having the same date of birth. I thought it was neat, our birthdays being so close together. I remember you saying you wished we had been born on the same day. We could've hand conjoined parties and dinners, presents after. It made me feel special; you made me feel special.
Since I've remembered, I've begun to see each of your birthdays, fleeting and flamable, as something to look forward to. Each of your passing dates is a milestone, a measure of how close you are to finally crumpling over and expiring once and for all. I've thought of it as a gift, my birthday present from God wrapped in an angel's wings tied in a bow of hope. Each birthday you celebrated was one day closer to the day you dropped dead. Just the notion of it made my heart race- freedom from you. Once you'd gone, disappeared into the your final resting place, I would finally be able to live normally, to feel okay again. You wouldn't be around anymore to make my memories, my dreams, my life, a living hell, and I could finally rest.
For so long, I focused on this, reminded myself of this until my brain vessels popped a shade of blue, that once you were gone, I could go back to life as it was before my memories clawed their way to the surface. This thought was what kept me going; it gave me purpose. It gave me hope.
I kissed a boy last night. A boy stuck his lips in between mine and called me beautiful, and the only thing I could think of was you. Your lips became his, and suddenly I was no longer fifteen, but younger. His hands wilted at the touch of my skin, shriveling and wrinkling until they were your hands cupping my cheeks. Instead of the cliche mess of tongues I became a mess of memory, unsure of where time stood. I was trapped in the past with no hope for escape. It was then I realized I had been counting the wrong birthdays all along.
You will never die. Your birthdays will pass, but you will not pass with them. You have yet to tack on even a single wrinkle since I was seven. As I grow up and out, you remain frozen, preserved. You will never die because you never lived. All the time I'd spent hating you and counting birthdays, it'd been me the whole time. You're a part of me. All of the flashbacks, the sleepness nights, the terror, the pain-you're not doing any of it. How could you possibly from so many miles away? When I kissed that boy, it wasn't you, but the darkest part of me. What you did is in the past while what I do, what I am, is here with me in the present. My hell isn't seeing you again- it's looking in a mirror and seeing the reflection for what it really is. You've leeched yourself on to me never to let go, and it's my own fault. It's my own fault.
Each October, I was one year closer to breaking from the bonds you'd locked me into, to finally finding the key. Each year your birthday came and went, mine had already done so the day before. Death really will set me free, but not yours. Your ghost will always haunt the person I have already and have yet to become. The only way I could ever rid myself of you is to rid myself of me.
Well, I finally put together the puzzle, single pieces swarming around us in a rage before settling into the finality of a finished picture. A week ago, I would've thought it greedy that you wished we shared a birthdate- haven't you already taken enough of me for yourself? I know better now. Your wish came true. We share a birthday as we share my memories. Though I still find myself wondering whose candles you blew this wish onto- your own? Or mine?
Happy Birthday. Make a wish.
When I was little, I remember sitting on the floor with you, a mess of puzzle pieces scattered around us. It was my birthday, and you told me that the next day was yours. You told me about how we were almost "birthday buddies," about how close we were to having the same date of birth. I thought it was neat, our birthdays being so close together. I remember you saying you wished we had been born on the same day. We could've hand conjoined parties and dinners, presents after. It made me feel special; you made me feel special.
Since I've remembered, I've begun to see each of your birthdays, fleeting and flamable, as something to look forward to. Each of your passing dates is a milestone, a measure of how close you are to finally crumpling over and expiring once and for all. I've thought of it as a gift, my birthday present from God wrapped in an angel's wings tied in a bow of hope. Each birthday you celebrated was one day closer to the day you dropped dead. Just the notion of it made my heart race- freedom from you. Once you'd gone, disappeared into the your final resting place, I would finally be able to live normally, to feel okay again. You wouldn't be around anymore to make my memories, my dreams, my life, a living hell, and I could finally rest.
For so long, I focused on this, reminded myself of this until my brain vessels popped a shade of blue, that once you were gone, I could go back to life as it was before my memories clawed their way to the surface. This thought was what kept me going; it gave me purpose. It gave me hope.
I kissed a boy last night. A boy stuck his lips in between mine and called me beautiful, and the only thing I could think of was you. Your lips became his, and suddenly I was no longer fifteen, but younger. His hands wilted at the touch of my skin, shriveling and wrinkling until they were your hands cupping my cheeks. Instead of the cliche mess of tongues I became a mess of memory, unsure of where time stood. I was trapped in the past with no hope for escape. It was then I realized I had been counting the wrong birthdays all along.
You will never die. Your birthdays will pass, but you will not pass with them. You have yet to tack on even a single wrinkle since I was seven. As I grow up and out, you remain frozen, preserved. You will never die because you never lived. All the time I'd spent hating you and counting birthdays, it'd been me the whole time. You're a part of me. All of the flashbacks, the sleepness nights, the terror, the pain-you're not doing any of it. How could you possibly from so many miles away? When I kissed that boy, it wasn't you, but the darkest part of me. What you did is in the past while what I do, what I am, is here with me in the present. My hell isn't seeing you again- it's looking in a mirror and seeing the reflection for what it really is. You've leeched yourself on to me never to let go, and it's my own fault. It's my own fault.
Each October, I was one year closer to breaking from the bonds you'd locked me into, to finally finding the key. Each year your birthday came and went, mine had already done so the day before. Death really will set me free, but not yours. Your ghost will always haunt the person I have already and have yet to become. The only way I could ever rid myself of you is to rid myself of me.
Well, I finally put together the puzzle, single pieces swarming around us in a rage before settling into the finality of a finished picture. A week ago, I would've thought it greedy that you wished we shared a birthdate- haven't you already taken enough of me for yourself? I know better now. Your wish came true. We share a birthday as we share my memories. Though I still find myself wondering whose candles you blew this wish onto- your own? Or mine?
Happy Birthday. Make a wish.
