Air Conditioning

If only.

How is it in years of friendship you never noticed

I don't post on my story?

The stars were not a symbol, no,

But the very action itself was meant to be an extension of the deal.

You don't post on your story either, you see,
And it doesn't take a genius to guess that every time before you hit "post" you thought of me and what I might think,

Even though I know you have a lot more friends to show as well, I know you thought of me.

I used to think it's self centered to believe I was always on your mind,

But I don't think it is anymore.

You missed it, the post I posted specifically because you wanted to see it,

My three months progress, my voice.

I can't exactly post that again without a reason to. Not so soon.

I'll have to wait until five months are up to post a reel instead.

Who knows, maybe you'll do what you should have stuck to your guns on.

You shouldn't follow my Instagram.
You shouldn't write to me.
You shouldn't listen to anything I post, or read it, or see it.

Really, I know it would make your life easier.

But you relapse into me like it's nothing,

And you even repost anything you find about your pain,

And I have a funny feeling you never really think about how it feels for me to see those things.

Every time I read about how I've hurt you, every time I'm reminded of you, every time I scream a song in my car and feel the new way my vocal cords project the sound and I think to myself "this one's for you."

It twists in my heart.

Every time I indulge myself to check your story, the fact that I check this godforsaken app every day for words on a screen that shouldn't matter but they do,

They do.

I check them hoping I'll see more good news than bad,
Hoping you'll be doing better so I don't have to feel this horrible.

But your version of doing better is just accepting that I'm a part of you,
And I think that makes me feel almost worse.

Part of me feels bad that I'm going to share this with you,

The other knows that's what the whole point of this book is.

Sometimes in passing the memories are pleasant,

But now that I can't make you smile, not in a way that can be written on a page and shown to me as proof,

Proof that I don't just bring you pain and melancholy,

The only proof I have is that I've left permanent gouges on your very being,
That will never go away,
But will scar beautifully enough that someone else may trace their fingers across them and cry for you while they tell you how pretty you still are despite them, how strong you are for getting through whatever gave them to you,

And I was the storm that tore you apart,
The thing that you're convinced was good like an abusee falls for their abuser, and I'm so so sure I must have done a million and a half things wrong to you, done wrong by you an infinite amount of times,

And yet you're still owed another chance if one comes up, and I therefore belong to you and the thought feels so grossly familiar again, like it did before, like I owe you. Like I can't say no even if I did want to if that day ever comes.

Maybe I don't really truly care about you and your well being,

Because if I did I would have blocked you by now, right?

So you would be able to get better.

If I did, I wouldn't be writing right now feeling sorry for myself again,

And yet here I am.

If only I were stronger.