You’ve been dead for 14 years.
I get anxious as we approach the 16th anniversary of your death, when we get to the point where you’ve been dead longer than you were ever alive.
I got mad this year. I was pissed.
I turned 30, and you, with a birthday just one day before mine, didn’t. And so rage. Because 30 fucking sucks. And you should have been here to suffer it with me, all of it, the heartache, living and breathing and all of it.
You should have fucking been here.
It’s dumb. You took your life at 16, and 14 years later, I’m still carrying it, still carrying the weight of what you did, still bearing the knowledge that they all blamed me, that I was the last person you saw, that I didn’t share enough of your last cigarette with you, that I didn’t demand a ride that last day, that last day of your life.
I want to yell at you. I want to fold up on the floor and cry in the bathtub and regret it all, but your death has colored my life, has made me the bitch that I am, has taught me about survival.
You were amazing. That laugh. That leather jacket. Learning to do headstands. All of it. You were amazing, my almost-birthday-twin.
You’re further away then you’ve ever been. These 14 years, you’ve had my back. You’ve been the thing that kept me from harm and I know, right now, I’m losing my grip on all the things, on logical thought and clear decision making and whatever else, and that’s not your fault, but mine, because I am digging my own grave. You wanted so much to protect me from harm, and you have. You’ve been there, for all of it, in your own way.
I love you.
But I still wish you were here. Every single day, especially in March and always on April 6th.
(I always wonder, who would I be without you?)