Best I Could Do
For Lindsey
They say your first heart break will always seem the worst. They say you will never forget your first love. They’re right. I think at least.
No, you weren’t my lover. No, you weren’t anything more than a friend. You said I was your best friend. You lied. You seemed to do that a lot.
If I could speak to you now, I don’t know what I would say. I would like to think that I would be classy and polite, asking you how you have been after all this time. But, you and I both know I was never like that. No, I was more likely to hold in all the anger, let in fester under my skin for ages and ages. So, even though I would like to think I would be polite, I wouldn’t. I would scream at you, yell until my lungs were raw, and my throat started to bleed.
I would tell you how you weren’t my friend. My friend would never do that to me, never. I would tell you how much I hated everything about you. Everything from your fake blonde hair, you’re stupid fucking nose, how your room was filled with the stench of your fucking fags and drugs, how you were a slut, a whore. I would tell you that your laugh sounded like a donkey, maybe even a horse. That’s what you looked like, at least, a horse. Yell to you that no matter how many times you try to say it, you still left me at those concerts. You still left me.
If, no when, I see you again, I won’t be polite, or nice, or even a little snarky. There is no doubt in my mind that I would finally let out all of the emotions you said I kept in too much. I would tell you that I wasn’t the one who was insecure. You were. I would tell you that I don’t talk about myself. I use actions. I would tell you how fucking scared I was when you called me your sister because I saw the way you treated your real family.
No, I don’t hate you. I wish I could. Maybe then I could get over all of this shit you put me through. But no matter what happens, I don’t hate you. I just hate that I thought you were the best I could do.
No, you weren’t my lover. No, you weren’t anything more than a friend. You said I was your best friend. You lied. You seemed to do that a lot.
If I could speak to you now, I don’t know what I would say. I would like to think that I would be classy and polite, asking you how you have been after all this time. But, you and I both know I was never like that. No, I was more likely to hold in all the anger, let in fester under my skin for ages and ages. So, even though I would like to think I would be polite, I wouldn’t. I would scream at you, yell until my lungs were raw, and my throat started to bleed.
I would tell you how you weren’t my friend. My friend would never do that to me, never. I would tell you how much I hated everything about you. Everything from your fake blonde hair, you’re stupid fucking nose, how your room was filled with the stench of your fucking fags and drugs, how you were a slut, a whore. I would tell you that your laugh sounded like a donkey, maybe even a horse. That’s what you looked like, at least, a horse. Yell to you that no matter how many times you try to say it, you still left me at those concerts. You still left me.
If, no when, I see you again, I won’t be polite, or nice, or even a little snarky. There is no doubt in my mind that I would finally let out all of the emotions you said I kept in too much. I would tell you that I wasn’t the one who was insecure. You were. I would tell you that I don’t talk about myself. I use actions. I would tell you how fucking scared I was when you called me your sister because I saw the way you treated your real family.
No, I don’t hate you. I wish I could. Maybe then I could get over all of this shit you put me through. But no matter what happens, I don’t hate you. I just hate that I thought you were the best I could do.