letters lament

Dear Dearest

I wasn't sure what else to call you, unless it was Stitch, but that's not my name for you, it's others. They have their own name for you, and I have dear and darling and love, but you're just Kaybear. Or maybe that's not it, because even then I can't really explain who you are. 

That was really confusing, and I bet you just laughed, or did that little eyebrow thing where your lips and nose scrunch up a little bit, with those eyes giving me a look that says, "Lex, get off the asylum sentences, we need to understand you." Or maybe it's the look of "Lexi, you're having a moment." See, you're the only person that gives me those looks and it's not mean. It doesn't make me want to scream and cry and punch them in the face. 

Alright, so we're the same brain and the same person, but at the same time we're opposites, or in my case, I think we're different stages or versions of each other. You're me if I'd grown up in a family that actually practiced religion; innocent and with more morals and such engraved in my mind. You have a lot more goals than I do, and they're governed by yourself or your parents, from what I can tell, and I don't know. For me, my parents just want me to be happy and they never really gave me many guidelines other than to be happy and believe what I want to believe, as long as I knew right from wrong. That's one of the ways we're different, because I'm very loose in the way I think; I've created my own borders because of it, and you're the opposite. You've been given borders, so you like to go outside the box and surpass them. 

We might think the same sort of way, with that deepness and the thougthfulness, but I think I know more of the sadness, or I hope I do. Sometimes I see quotes or a look in your eyes; remember that time we talked about suicide? I've talked many people out of it, and then you had this look in your eyes; I just pray that you'd tell me if you've ever been that low. Sure, you've probably been low, but that low? It takes a lot, and I don't think you know it.

That's why I envy you.

You've never sat on the shower floor with a razor in your hand and think about cutting deeper on your legs after you shave them, or pinched yourself, scratched yourself with your own nails until blood came through. Maybe you have, but I don't think so. Have you? Have you ever ran to your bedroom and pounded your head into the floor because you feel so stupid; you're too stupid to be alive. That's how you feel when you go that low, like you don't want to live anymore, so you sit at the computer and type out the bleeding words with tears streaming down your face and you write out your last letter to your mother to tell her why you're such a screw up, before pinching yourself and passing out next to your desk, waking up to realize that you made a mistake and you were too weak to actual go through with it. 

We both write, and that's another difference. When you write, you're using dreams or the way you've thought about things, the books you've read or the movies you've watched. You always ask me how I come up with everything I write, or how I make it work together, like in poetry. The only answer I have is I don't know, because it just comes out. The more I experience, the more I feel, the worse I get; it happens. It just happens. I'm really glad you don't know that. Please, stay away from that reality. You just don't want to make it there: it changes you. 

This is the last part; this is where I thank you for being you. Kayla, I can't even start right. We've been friends since fifth grade, and even if we weren't close then, you were this little bit of sunshine that was always there; I remember wanting to be as happy as you, even though I never could be. When we got closer, and you started to talk to me and we'd talk to each other and do carpool and all of that, or talk on the bus? You've just always been that one person that I can go to for anything or ask for anything and know that someone, you'll pull through. 

Dammit, I love you.