It’s not always about you, you know. You’re not the only one going through shit. You visit me at work to tell me you’re leaving right then and there for a week, with no fucking notice, and I say to myself “it must have just slipped his mind. Happens to everyone.”

Then I text you and you don’t text me back, then I find out from a fucking tumblr post that you’re back (because you didn’t even tell me yourself), and then when I try to talk to you, you just ignore it. But, you know, when I was in California and you had a fucking mental breakdown and you blew up my phone I still took the time to talk to you. 

You’re my best friend but sometimes you’re so self-centered and you think that every horrible thing that happens to you is far more important and worse than everyone else’s problems.

Thanks a lot.

She was always the warrior, the level-headed refree who called out her family’s fouls and penalty shots. If there was ever a need for an anchor, she was it. I have respected her for keeping her feet on the ground ever since I can remember, and finally, realism is taking its toll on me. She needs to hold it together, but she is losing. We all are. I scufff the inside of my shoe on the ugly blue wall trim of the hallway that shrinks in width every second; soon I will be squeezed and juiced of all my emotions and evaporate. 

I am still tightly clenching my pen that I use to write hateful slurs to Reuben. There is powerful bitter tones in my letter, in the beginning with biting sarcasm and personal intelligence. But soon that river of clever class runs dry and I have found myself in such a rage that it has brainwashed me. The demon inside is roaming freely in the nightlife and becoming more adventurous with every sentence. It is cackling heartily as I spill my grudges all over the page like a full, fallen glass.

I’m selfish.
I’m arrogant.
I’m judgmental. 
I’m obsessed.
I’m unkind.
I’m short-wired.
I’m hypocritical.
I’m unrealistic.
I’m indecisive.
I’m scared. 

You’re miserable and it’s fucking hilarious.
You’re losing yourself while I’m finding myself.
You’re turning into something you said you’d never be,
And I’m becoming everything I’ve ever wanted.

You’re stuck while I’m moving forward.
You may be out on your own,
But you’re all alone,
And with people you don’t know.

  Cheers, bitch.

One day, I’m going to be happy.
One day, I’m going to be free.
One day, I’m going to be in love.

One day, I’ll leave the past behind.
One day, I’ll set foot somewhere new.
One day, I’ll like who I’ve become.

One day, one day. 

I think about how shy and scared I used to be, and then I think about how I am now. I know that if I had the two stand next to each other, they wouldn’t like the other.

Enough with food, that’s what my body keeps telling me.
Load on the cigarettes, that’s what my body keeps whispering.

Your clavicles are more noticeable today.
Your stomach’s shrinking.

I never thought I’d think this way,
But now it’s all I think about.

Lose more weight, you’ll feel better.
Lose more weight, you could be so much better.

I’m now starting to feel,
That nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. 

I’m finally through with you.
It took me six months to get here, but I’ve made it.

Have a nice life. 

I’m miserable, you’re not.
I guess I lost the war.