Honest Confessions on Letting Go

I have never wanted someone to be hurt,

but to also be happy at the same time.

It's strange really, wishing pain and also wishing happiness.

The dichotomy of letting go is that the taste is bitter.

One of the basic human tastes: bitter.

I only ever really see you in a dream, but I never actually see you.

You are imagery.

A dramatic description appealing to all five of my senses.

1. Touch.

A basic human necessity.

I've never more desperately need to hold on to you with dear life as more as I've needed to strangle you.

I've learned to be wrapped around you, hoping we would both drown.

A captain always goes down with their ship, but I find myself with all of your weight chained to my ankles and you were on the last rescue boat,

I used to think you made a clean getaway.

You were afloat while I was drowning in our demons.

Both of our ankles chained, now it is just a matter of sinking at different rates.

It all comes down to who was carrying all the weight.

I mean I thought after nine months of being inseparable and after everything we've been through we were a package deal,

I guess not.

I guess the weight finally got to you.

2. Taste.

Why do we crave that which is bitter?

Why do I like the taste of wine better than the sound of your laugh on the only home video we had left,

Why do I like the burn of hard liquor better than your name, forever etched into the back of my throat?

Maybe I am still bitter,

and we always go with what you know.

Dad said the only thing that kept you out of trouble when you were my age was running.

Maybe you're just so used to running from your problems.

I come so far as to place a bottle against my lips and I hear your footsteps.

Nights like these, I weep.

Letting go is bitter sweet.

3. Sound.

I hate hearing about you.

I hate it more than I hate talking about you.

I hate the sound of my own frustration,

Screaming in my car unable to breathe because of how much I fucking hate you.

God, I fucking hate you.

I hate when my father calls me by your name in an argument because I remind him of you.

He calls me a bitch, he calls me stupid, but it never hurts compared to being called Lindsay.

I will never be you, I am not you.

I hate the sound of my father telling me he should have left me with you.

Nothing hurts more not the bruises, not my scars, but to be compared to you.

He finally sees me weep,

He apologizes because how could someone possibly be so god-damn cruel?

At night, the only thing I can hear is you.

The sound of your laugh, but this is not funny.

4. Sight.

I see you in everything.

I see you in my father. I see you in my brother.

I see you in myself.

The bridge of my nose, the way my body curves.

Physically I am you.

But it's so much more than that.

I see you in everything I do.

Every mistake I make, every chance I decided I didn't want to take.

I see you in my failures, I blame you in my hardship.

But I see you in every family that catches my eye.

Every mother and daughter grabs my attention.

Did you ever think about the moment of seeing your daughter in her prom dress,

or the hours shortly before her wedding?

Was the past decade one sided or did these thoughts haunt you whenever a moment was still, too?

I see you in the audience of every event I ever have; when I cry in a dramatic scene everyone simply thinks I'm getting into character but your face haunts my entire being.

I see you in the words I write that everyone assumes could only possibly be about abusive ex lovers because could somebody ever be so fucking hurt by their own fucking mother?

I see you in the good and the bad, there's an uncomfortable balance and it hurts.

Some days I love you, most days I hate you.

Some days it feels like I'm never going to forget you, other days you do not cross my mind.

5. Smell.

Your cheap perfume.

You always wore the same perfume.

It was this combination of something. I can't quite figure it out.

I could never quite figure you out, either.

I guess that's something we have in common, complexity.

If I ever come across that same perfume I will buy every bottle I can find.

Some days I wish I could drench my sheets in that scent and bury myself in my pillow.

That smell haunts my mind every time the room is still, almost like your ghost is hovering over me and I live vicariously through that which reminds me of you.

Why am I still so hung up on that perfume?

More importantly, why am I still so hung up on you?