Living Dreams

Cringe

The scratching sound you make as you write makes me want to rip that pencil from your hands and stab you with it. I remember the day you told me I couldn't write. You didn't come right out and say but you most certainly implied it.

The faces you make when you laugh look like targets for me to shoot at. Every single day you stole my smile from me.

Your preaching of self-love is empty air for me to choke on. You made me hate myself.

You fell apart when someone put you down but it was me who slept in your grave.

Every word you've ever said floats around me, poking me like millions of needle points, but you judge me for opening my mouth. Then you mock my silence. What does it matter? You say I am an idiot either way.

When I ran, you pulled the rug from under my feet, which are weak from underuse. Keeping me by your side was nice but keeping me quiet and below you was your goal. You don't want friends. You want minions. Even today, I can't escape. And I blame myself because I am the only person weak enough to accept blame. It's what I've always done and you did nothing to stop me.

You tell the same jokes over and over until I cannot help but go deaf to them. But your feelings are hurt when I can't laugh.

When I ventured out, you found the most unreasonable reason to hate a new friend of mine. You hate anyone who isn't like you; you hate anyone who is too much like you. You couldn't spend three minutes with yourself. Try three years.

You preach that we need to respect others' beliefs. I agree. Then you got into an argument with someone. I agreed with them but I said nothing. You were mad at me for not having your back. I said I wouldn't give up my beliefs for a person but that excuse wasn't good enough for you.

You bullied a girl for having a poem with her. I told you to leave her alone. You did not see me standing up for her; you saw me bullying you. I wasn't allowed to defend the boy you used the R-word against. I wasn't allowed to point out that the doctor was not discriminating against you for your weight when he was looking out for your health.

You say you value the truth but I don't think you can handle it. You see your truth. You've shaped the world to your liking. You look at a man and they are either stupid or manipulative. You make others out to be evil so you can be the queen of morality. You made me out to be a deviant. You took learning from my hands because you needed me to see you as smart.

"Don't talk about your favorite band who saved you from suicide." "Enough about your recently deceased dog." "Get up, you're asthma isn't that bad." "I don't care if you couldn't sleep last night because you saw a woman in your room. She's not real. Get over yourself."

"Fine, I'm done. We're not suited to be friends. Go live a great life. I mean that. Just keep me out of it."

"How dare you? Traitor. I did everything for you. I read your books."

"You criticized them until you realized you were losing me. Then you started saying you loved them. But even then, you couldn't bring yourself to acknowledge that my books are more than just pretty sentences strung together. I write for a purpose but you can't let a subordinate think differently." . . .

"How dare you?"

You're a pencil who refuses to erase your path of destruction. I am a pen but even that is not a good enough excuse for speaking out of turn and not being able to suck the words back into my mouth. I am still learning how to not scribble the past away. I can't even be proud of my biggest accomplishments because of you.

Shall I list off everything you've almost ruined for me: French class, participating in discussions, being proud of myself, high school (I can't wait to leave because of you), being friends with people of the male gender . . . You told me to stand up for myself but I couldn't say anything to you unless I want to be accused of bullying. You weakened me but I couldn't show it unless I wanted to be accused of setting a bad example for women by being overpowered.

If you could take a red pen to every sentence I've ever written, you would change everything and bleed every drop of Paisley Wolfe out of them.

No, I won't tell you things about myself. I will not confide in you. I never did. I never let you get to know me. I never trusted you. I didn't tell you I slept with my best friend. You would have been disappointed. You would have called me a slut. You called the sweetest girls sluts because you thought you had the right to judge their private lives. You live off of not caring what others think of you. But you told me your opinion of me matters.

I wish I never met you. I wish I kept to myself. I wish I made you aware that I was never interested. I didn't want to be mean. But you turned out to be exactly the kind of person I thought you were. And I had to be the exact person I never wanted to be to save myself. And you don't see that: I was saving myself. I don't owe you anything. I will tell every teacher in the school to keep us separated. I've told so many already. I will avoid my friends if it means avoiding you. I duck out of pictures that you try to photobomb. I will put makeup on my face. I will brag about everything you found insulting about me. I'll listen to the music that makes me happy and I'll look at photos of my dogs for hours. I'll cry myself to sleep at night knowing that the woman who stalks my dreams and makes my life a living hell has made a better companion than you over the years.

Keep scratching your pencil against the paper. Be ready to take notes on what it really means to be polite. A good person does not place a napkin in their lap but scream at the humble waiter. A humble person does not refuse help from a friend. A friend knows where the line has been drawn and refuses to cross it. I'll watch you cringe as I scratch that line into the dirt with bleeding fingers and run off into the sunset with an entire lifetime of happiness and freedom ahead of me. Thank you for being the mistake that got my legs going.