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 humming classical 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. Espeically when the ones around you have gone through the same kind.
The girl next door.