the shepherd's sword

five - twenty nine - fifteen

so it's been two years.

two years of the deafening silence. as if the others believe that creating for themselves a false reality ebbs away the pain. i do pray it works for them. it doesn't work for me.

it's been a little less than two years since there was apparently some unspoken agreement to never say your name. i said it aloud to myself today. just because. because i wanted to see how it felt in my mouth. rolling off my tongue. echoing off the walls in a whisper. one that almost resembled a phantasm; not quite dead, but certainly not alive. i wanted to know if it poked the soft spots of my cheeks like a wad of tinfoil, scraping delicate skin unapologetically. or perhaps, i thought, it would feel familiar, nearly comforting. i'll let you know when i figure it out.

i want to talk about you. i want to talk about the happy things. how you painted your nails so many colors all at once, this one blue, this one red, this one purple, this one green. green. i want to talk about how green was your favorite color. about how we teased you that you were a leprechaun, considering that you loved green, and looked irish. you had so many freckles, and that fiery red hair. your hair. it was the one thing you always loved about yourself. always.

i also want to talk about the sad things. like how you stopped painting your nails so many different colors. how your beautiful hair lost its luster once you stopped eating. it's so ironic. you were always so thin. i'll never understand why you thought otherwise. i want to talk about how you went from singing all the time to hardly ever. only when you thought you were alone. and even then, you sang such sad, sad songs. i want to talk about how you never got to learn how to play the guitar, and how i know that old one still sits in the corner of your room. no one will ever play it now. it will simply collect dust.

i hardly ever answer my phone anymore. i think it's because i'm afraid. afraid i'll get that call again; that you were gone, yes, you jumped off a bridge and yes, they were sure you were dead and yes, they were sure you did it yourself and no, there was nothing i could do. but maybe that isn't the reason. i don't know. i just know that i miss my best friend.

your father feels guilty. the awful thing is that you'd be happy about that. a sick, twisted kind of happy, though. the kind that laughs as it smacks you across the face and stomps on your lungs because ha, you fell for it. i wish your mother would call. but, then again, a phone works both ways. i'm such a hypocrite. a terrible person, really.

maybe that's why i wasn't enough to make you stay. not even for my next birthday. it's coming up soon, you know. i'll be a whole year older and not any wiser at all.

or maybe that isn't so.

or maybe i just wanted to end this on a hopeful note.

i dunno.