6/21/17: Who Are You?

You were supposed to be a part of us. My family loved you as their own.

My mother still prays for you while my father keeps telling me, “I really wanted to give them a home in us, if they wanted it too.” My siblings both thought you would be one of those kids who would stick around forever and grow alongside us. I thought maybe I would be a secondary member of your family in exchange as well.

But things change. People change. You changed.

Don’t get me wrong, I did too, but I became more like myself while you became someone I wouldn’t choose to be around now. I don’t know who you are and neither do you, and I wonder if you think the same of me. Am I still that same young girl you met years ago? Or does it scare you sometimes that you’re only holding on because we have a lot of history and you just care too damn much to let me fall victim to myself?

I knew you hid the things you did, but I never considered that you hid part of yourself.

I gave you every bit of me and what did I get in return? Fragments of a fragile human who couldn’t bear to give their whole self to someone who only wanted to love them. But I guess you were afraid. Either of love or of yourself, I’m still not sure.

I can’t stop hoping that you’ll show up again. But I dread seeing you as you are now.

What’s been eating me alive is the fact that someone else embodies your body, but what keeps me holding on is the tiny glimmers of hope you give. Those precious moments when I stop and smile because, “Oh, there you are. I’ve missed you.” And just like that, you’re gone again. A wannabe enigmatic person with a cigarette hanging out of their mouth and talking to me like they know exactly who I am.

And they do. And I hate that I can’t talk with the same confidence.

You came into my life just when I needed you and I hoped you’d always stay. You, the real you, has been gone for years, but I could be wrong. I could be hanging on to a version of you that I built up in my mind and you let me believe because damn it was easy. I don’t blame you, but I hate the permanent pressing turmoil living in my brain as a result.

Let me go, or come back as I thought you were. As you are.


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