i'll love you until the universe decides i shouldn't

sometimes i miss you,
but then i realize that i was just an awful person to be friends with,
as were you.
i never kept stories straight,
afraid to tell the truth about my family after i opened up to you and you judged me,
so then i tried to keep quiet.
but it just resulted in things i could never explain well enough for you to understand.
i don't miss the person you are.
you are damaged,
and toxic,
and lost,
but i am too,
and maybe two toxics cant be mixed.
i don't miss the person you are,
i miss the memories,
and being able to call you a best friend,
but i don't miss you.
the more days past,
the more i wish it wasn't you who i shared all the memories with.

At the age of 16, I promised myself I’d never get addicted.
I swore to myself that not one thing could drown me in the ocean that is addiction, but at age 18, I shattered the promise into pieces.

Growing up, the smell of cigarette smoke escaping my mom’s sweaters always made me sick to my stomach,
but as soon as sadness found me at the age of 16, it whispered in my ear to find the addiction in nicotine.
I found myself sneaking into the garage to steal cigarettes out of half full packs,
blowing smoke out of my window at the Devil’s hour.
And at age 18 I replaced the stolen packs of cigarettes with bought packs of Marlboro Blues.
The packs sit at the bottom of my purse, the smell masked by over usage of perfume,
the addiction hidden by me telling everyone who loves me “I don’t like it anyway.”

Growing up with an alcoholic father, full of terrifying nights wondering whether or not I’d see him come home after the bar,
I swore to myself I’d never drink any sort of alcohol,
but that was soon broken when I found the bottle of wine no one wanted to drink,
and the forgotten beer cans nobody from my family drank at a birthday party.
I drowned it all, and for that second I understood why my father could want this addiction so much.
The burn was a numbing experience, and I found more relief in shots of mixed liquor and blackouts than any therapy session.

There’s no “growing up” story with the blade, with the cutting, with the self harm.
Maybe I was always fascinated with blades. Maybe I was drawn to it. Maybe I liked the idea of it,
but becoming addicted to dragging a blade across my skin was never something I could imagine.
When the knife first drew blood,
a part of me thought the waterfall of crimson was beautiful,
trailing down my arm in a river of red,
dropping into a puddle like raindrops on a stormy day.
The blade cut through skin as easy as pen on paper,
and I promised myself I would never become addicted,
but the faded white lines on my arms tell a different story.

I remember meeting you,
I remember telling myself,
“****, you’re *******,”
because even if I did promise myself never to become addicted to anything,
I easily became addicted to you.
But you,
you weren’t toxic like every other thing in my life.
You were the sunshine through storm clouds,
hazel eyes sparkling when you talked about something you love.
But it wasn’t how you talked about the items in your life that made me become addicted,
it’s how you light up when talking about me.
It’s how your eyes look before I kiss you,
full of not only lust but so much love,
a love that is so foreign to me I can’t find myself to ever want to stop kissing you.
It’s how you kiss my hand, or my forehead,
or sing in the car when I’m not okay.
It’s how at home I feel in your arms,
and maybe that’s cliche,
but if this is addiction,
then I never want to be in rehab.

you know that feeling when you find new music & you absolutely fall in love with it?
or maybe that excited feeling while waiting in line before a concert?
how every part of your body just fills up with this adrenaline,
sparks that make you not be able to stand still,
a feeling that you never want to stop feeling.
that's exactly what it feels like to love you, to be in love with you.
that feeling, all the time. & I don't want it to go away.

I don't want to tell you that I love you.
The word "love" terrifies me.
The concept of it tears me apart from inside out, piece by piece.
How could such a small word mean so much?
I don't want to tell you that I love you because I see so much heart break,
but when I take your hand in mine,
as it envelopes the hand that once held a blade to skin,
the feeling that surges through every part of me must mean something.
I've felt the sparks of lust before,
but when your lips press onto mine,
the first thought in my mind that invades my mind isn't to tear your clothes off.
My mouth spreads into a smile across yours,
and the next thing I know I'm pulling you closer to me with the fear of losing you.

it's not the self harmer tucked safely away in the back of my mind that wants to crawl back into the familiarity of old habits.
it's the blade stolen from my father's tools, traces of dried blood still gleaming.
it's the bandaids kept in my desk drawer, there if needed.
it's the marks on my neck from rough ***, a pain that sparked the craving for a different distraction back into my body.
it's the fact that i'm never told the truth, my life fueled by lies for years on end that just need to be forgotten about.
it's the racing thoughts,
"he'll leave you"
"he'll find someone better"
"he doesn't even love you, it's a lie"
"you're nothing to him, to the friends you think you have"
"everything she says isn't a joke, it's all the truth but you're just too ******* dumb to realize it"
running on repeat in my mind each and every night like a broken record.
it's the lack of sleep where the loss of blood could take the place of the pills that stopped working months ago.
it's not the self harmer that craves the blade again,
she just brings it out to the open.

I can scream from the top of my lungs at the highest point in our city,
where my voice will echo throughout the buildings,
"I love you" bouncing from east to west,
and right back to us,
wrapping themselves around the teenage bodies that hold angst, and lust, and love,
but most importantly hope,
the hope that taught me life was worth the late night fights from parents who need a long overdue divorce,
it's worth the headaches masking the buried worry that sits deep in my chest,
it's worth the tears that shed late at night when the demons come out to play only be wiped away from you.
it's worth it all,
because I know you'll be there to make me smile when there's nothing to smile about.