Lips that had never been chapped
By liquor,
Or seasoned with smoke.
We had everyone to blame
But ourselves.

You had bubble gum pink hair
And a goody-good attitude
With a hidden mean streak.
I had choppy hair I cut myself
And an in your face attitude
With a hidden kind streak.

I rarely told the whole truth
And you were proud of yourself
Whenever you kept a secret
More than a week.

You told me best friends hold hands
By holding pinkies,
But when we got our first tattoos
We gripped each other’s five whole fingers,
Because if you’re going to make a potentially bad decision
You may as well
Do it wholeheartedly.

We walked dogs
And giggled about boy bands
It was nothing too unusual.

But I had a feminist agenda
And you wanted a boy to tell you
What to do.
Your mom always told us
We’d be happy when we have a man
To make the hard decisions,
And I never bought it.
You never objected.

There would be nights
I couldn’t handle
The sound of my phone vibrating
To announce your messages,
and I couldn't handle looking at them,
I worried if I didn't take care of you
that you would fly into a thousand pieces,
your messages were evidence of that.
But sometimes I still needed to sleep,
or breathe,
and I couldn't guarantee those things as your friend.

When the summer turned my nose pink
and brought freckles to the surface of our faces
we shared milkshakes
and giggles about boys.
We wore each other's shoes
and pajama pants,
did each other's makeup,
and wouldn't buy clothes
without checking in
on the other's opinion.

It was all so ordinary,
yet so abnormal
and painful.

In our early twenties
we starting drinking together,
and that quickly became
one of the only things I could do with you.
You didn't want to go out,
or talk,
or anything.
Just go to work,
come home,
drink,
and watch TV.
I had to be a part of that world
if I wanted to be your friend.

I wanted more,
and that's what killed our friendship.
I wanted more than everything
being your way.

I could blame your boyfriend,
because he was more important to you
than I was,
but it isn't his fault.
His only fault was not being able
to handle other people.

If you ever go looking for reasons why,
know I don't hate you.
I remember camping out in tents in your front lawn
and I know that I cannot do anything
but miss some of those memories,
but I needed more,
and less.

More friendship,
less dysfunction.

I didn't know how to rebuild it,
and I tried in all the wrong ways...
but I would've thought
that you'd still be there
if I needed you.

Who would've thought
that I would be the one
to fly apart,
but I did,
and suddenly you weren't there.
You couldn't look me in the eye.
You'd demanded my help for the majority of my life,
but all you could muster the courage to do
was send me a text,
a text that if I read between the lines properly
told me
that I wasn't your problem,
but you wished me well.

I think that's a good way to end it,
you got it right.

You're not my problem anymore,
but I wish you well.