Dear the boy living in the seventh house,
I’ve been observing you. I drink in your silhouette through
the sheer, peach coloured curtains that protect you like pillars of citrine. On
Saturday mornings when those curtains are pulled aside, I see you reading the
poetry books you hide every time your friends come over. On Sunday mornings I
can hear you singing heart throbbing tunes to yourself as you munch on beignets. On
Monday mornings I see you rushing across different parts of your room, almost
like a bee flying from flower to flower. I see you near the window. I sense
your hesitation as your hand hovers close to the curtains before you pull them
aside. Your eyes meet mine.
In that second, I see the repudiation shine in your eyes
like light bouncing off of a shattered mirror. I see the regret confused with
nostalgia like night air laced with the scent of sweat and soda. I see you wear
your ignorance like armour.
Strip away your defences. Rip away your curtains and look at
me every morning like I look at you. How will you get over the pain when you
can’t look it in the eye?
Turn that ignorance into something beautiful. Write me love
letters you will never send. Watch your hands shake – the same hands that held
mine – as you write clumsy words that make no sense. Write about all the
mistakes you made and all the apologies that remained unsaid. You must read
them instead of your poetry books.
Take my tear drops and collect them in a jar. Rainwater. Scrawl the word on with imprecise
movements of your wrist. Insist that something so raw and unconditioned,
something that came from so deep within me, is meaningless. You must clean your
wounds with that liquid.
Force shadows to creep under your eyes as you stay up on
countless nights. Breathe in the night air clogged with tears and desperation.
Replay the reel of bittersweet memories in your head like an endless horror
movie. Ache to hold my body in hopes to soothe your nerves. When you ask
yourself why you are doing this, you must tell yourself: I did this to her.
Repeat it to yourself until it is engraved into your memory.
Your armour will shatter and we will be equal; pained,
bruised and defenceless.
It is much easier to cope with pain. Especially when the ones around you
have gone through the same kind.
Sincerely,
The girl next door.
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