You smell like autumn leaves falling even if it's freezing cold where I'm standing at right now. You threw your head back laughing, that looks real. Your worn out bonnet I've seen you using ever since fifth grade, it's earl grey. Looks great on you. It never left you, unlike me. You look exactly the same 5 years ago.
The oak tree at your house's backyard is still there. We used to hide our school bag on the hollow hole at the side of that tree, we're too lazy to bring it back home. Because it makes my feet sore and you can never go out again once they saw you. They made you run errands we never understood what for. But we're together so none of it mattered to me. I carry the bigger and heavier bag of empty bottles, I thought, your lips are bleeding and it icks me a bit because I remember I fell on my bike earlier that week, whenever I tried running the wound opens up-- just scared that your lips will bleed and drip on your favorite shirt again. Because that's how cuts works right? And maybe I can ease up what you feel if carry that bag. It was full of glass shard.
I remember how uncoordinated your right hands are in coloring our textbooks because you always run the crayon out of the line, and because your Mom refused the idea that you're a leftie. She said it's unlucky and evil. She said you're the reason why the manager at the local supermarket caught her stealing that pack of cigarette.
She's beaten you up. Your fair skin became violet and black. Your lips were thin and weren't red before that Tuesday afternoon, but you came to school unrecognizable. You're confused. "That's fucking $28! Why the fuck did you told the cashier that you'll pay for the goddamn cigarette yourself when you grow up? You piece of--" I heard your Mom, she sounds furious. I heard you cry.
You're not less than $28.
I know that.
I told you that.
You asked me if there's a world where we can pick who do we want to be our Mom. I said I'm praying, I said maybe in college we can? Because I heard that that's the time we can pick what we want to do in our life. But you got sad, your Mom told you she'll sign you up in training where you can get more money than college will. You said maybe that will work, you said you'll buy me some bonnet and scarf too when we grow up. I don't like that. Of all places you want to work, why is it on a brothel? Yeah, your Mom said there's great income there but my Auntie left my Uncle's house because he's gone to that place, once. That sounds scary.
But now you're in one.
I know you're mad, but I'm here again.
Your tics got better, you smelled your breath more than four times on the last ten minutes and I saw you take a whole pack of Tictac. You knew the scent of Hennessy is still there but are you ever aware how anxiety crumpled you up?
I don't know if I can believe this current life you have, you took your shirt off in front of everyone. You don't even know them. But under your breath, after the night, you said "It's alright, I don't even know them." You're tiptoeing out of this studio-apartment, you don't want to wake up the old man you slept with. You got what you wanted.
But did you?
You came home to your Aunt Nancy, she made you chicken casserole and decaf coffee, a usual weekend for the both of you. Her eyes are teary, she said you can now stop working 3 shifts a day because her pension are being sent to her correctly. She said it's difficult to work in fastfood and customer service. But you don't work there.
You work at a club and you dance on poles with only strings and piece of black leather covering the sensitive part of your body.
You want to quit that job. It's making your back sore, it's traumatic and you mostly dissociate whenever you're being touched.
You want to quit that job. I know.
I know you hate clothes that shows too much skin. I know you liked ballet better, you said they look fancy and you like tutus because my Barbie Doll's wearing one.
I know you want to quit that job so much.
You want to quit that job. But you can't.
Your Mom taught you to stay on the painful parts of your life, she said you were her painful piece. She said she could get any man she wanted but she did stayed even if your Dad pointed a gun in her head.
She stayed even if your Dad threw your house and lost it on a gambling session. She stayed even if your Dad got on a deep debt and used her to pay for it. She stayed even if she saw you, trapped under your "great" Father's body, at 9.
She slapped you. "Ungrateful wench! I work like a dog day and night to pay your Father's debt and here you are, enjoying your alone time having sex with my husband!"
You were raped.
Your Aunt Nancy took you in because she knew what his brother did and she felt bad.
You were raped.
You dropped out of our school, you dont have enough money for it. I dont go to school there anymore.
You were grazed.
I think you hate me because I'm not there when you badly needed me.
You are brave.
You had no one. Your Mom's a demon. You Dad's enjoying his time in hell. I wasn't there with you when you looked for me but I tried coming back, if I could right now, I would.
You were dead.
Inside. You wanted to die for real. But you were scared to go in a place where your Mom and Dad could be at.
You were grace.
I remember that time you have a piece of cookie for lunch in the fifth grade and you broke it in half so that you can give it to the homeless kid beside the playground swing I first saw you.
You were raped.
By the unlucky and unfair decision of this fucked up universe. Life here in earth is your living hell.
And I'm sorry if I became so selfish and absorbed. I missed your smile and your rough hands. I killed myself with a shotgun. I hope you forgive me. I ate your Dad's shotgun bullet after I shot them.
We're all in hell but they can never hurt you again.
So if I come back, will you still be my friend?
