The little souveiner of a terrible year

It might make me terrible,

but you wouldn't dare guess how many times I hoped that 

I wouldn't need to know when you spend time with her. 

I'm fine without knowing that you mended her wounds when she was a klutz,

and she thought you were so sweet and you loved her unconditionally. 

Please, dont tell me about it.

As much as I loved being your friend, 

a part of me knows that I shouldn't give you the time of day.

My missing out on everything going on around me

is enough to bare a hole right in my middle.

And I wish I could apologize so many times for being a screw-up,

but I really wasn't.

I was me,

and you didn't like it when I wanted to embrace that,

but I need to.

Because when you leave, I am all that I will have left of anything.

and while I'm well aware that you not wanting me (gosh that hurts to even type)

will never lessen me as a person,

it still stings sometimes. 

And as much as I want to hide it beneath the corner of a metaphor.

I don't know if I can be more blunt than telling you that I'm sick of seeing you with her.

Your happiness is well deserved,

but I did not earn or deserve the sadness that I have due to it. 

I also really want to apologize, 

but I have nothing left to apologize for.

I'm just an ordinary immature girl who has no idea what she's doing with anything

and while everyone tells her she's great, you don't really care.

I don't know how I could have made myself better so that it could have 

been reflected in your eyes. 

I was virtually the best me that, at this age, I ever could be.

I'll never forget how good it felt when I stopped my crying phase.

It will never stop aching, 

or perhaps that's just the idea that has been drilled into my head for so long.

Everything will last forever because all of your decisions right now are infinite. 

But as permanent as everything I do now feels, 

I however, will never be permanent by any means. 

I will come and go everywhere my soul sees fit,

but I'm puzzled as to why it's chosen to stay with you,

my apathetic friend, for so long. 

My memories are the terrible souveneir of a horrific year. 

This is the end of the story, 

and while most of them have the nice, optimistic end,

where something nice might just happen to the protagonist,

this is starting to feel like the real story,

which isn't really a story at all.

In this life,

the girl is left with stitches over the sadness that she  rips open all of the time,

forgetting to think of anything else.

The only thing remaining are the quirky blunders of

how powerful the year was as I decide to stop wanting to cling to it. 

Knowing that the next one will be more than easy,

I can try.

But I'm almost at that point in tearing apart velcro

where the friction is a bit too strong to even start that home stretch of pull. 

This was a grandious book, but I think that

I'm starting to lose feeling in my arms from holding it up so long. 

The print is getting smaller and I'm sick of

straining my eyes to try to read through the eyes of others. 

The writer was gifted and all-knowing, but quite frankly,

all I can hope for is that he switches off with an author of gentler hands and dainty script. 

Huh. 

I really did think that I would avoid metaphors in this business. 

I suppose that author taught me things that I haven't recognized yet. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace.