I love you.
Not the same hollow love I felt for that boy that didn't know my name.
Not the same hard-earned love I have for my dog who holds me when I cry over you.
Not the same unwilling love I have for our father who I don't speak to anymore.
I really, truly love you.
You aren't dead, but then you are.
You're dead and dying, which I never thought was possible but now seems all too possible and I'm dying watching you die and now my existence is just filled with these broken fragments of a life that is ruined.
You're decomposing but still breathing.
I'm living my life at your funeral, as I watch the person I once knew be lowered into an endless pit in the dirt and I'm screaming but no sound can be heard.
And there's nothing I can do.
All I can manage is to turn my back and pretend I can't see the waterfall flowing from our mothers eyes, the sadness behind our sister's smile.
I pretend not to feel the all consuming emptiness that now accompanies any memory of you.
You're in all of my memories. We grew up together.
So I'll take this pill and that one and pretend that the smile on my face isn't chemically induced.
That the peaceful sleep I enjoy isn't forced.
I'll hide the bruises left on my soul every time I see a photo of you.
I am black and blue and dying.
Can't you see that you're killing me?
I am dying and you are living, even though you're dead.