I hope you are unhappy wherever you are.
And may you always lose the keys to your car.
May your underwear be uncomfortable all your life
and may you hit all the red lights whenever you drive.
May your upstairs neighbor party all night long
and may the radio never play your favorite song.
May your skin never reach the smoothness of silk
and may your cookies break when you dip them in milk.
Because I don't want you dead for just hurting me
But I wish for you that tiny extra bit of misery.

Silly girl
You thought this time it would be different
that an apology would roll off her tongue like drops of honey
smoothing over the bitter grooves of underhanded insults
you thought that she could recollect your virginal heart
when smiles appeared as easily as the love interest in a rom com
days of honeydew laughter and cotton candy clouds
thought she could sit next to you gently
watch the wind roll by in tendrils of nostalgia
rather than throw herself into the dark mess of woods that are your thoughts on a sunny day
instead of desperately planting trees to block the sun as you stood quietly chopping them down in hopes of one day catching a rare glimpse of the light
oh honey
don’t you see that pride is a stepstool?
Low enough that you can still see part of her but high enough that she has completely lost sight
don’t you see that her head is in a cupboard of dishes that were organized by her
the dim echo of your calls bounce off the porcelain and land in her mouth
she spits them out
you leave the room
ignorant little girl
problematic little girl
you tell yourself that she will get better that you will get better that one day
waking up in the morning won’t feel like a broken elevator
stranded between floors
you could press the right buttons
but it wouldn’t matter anyway
you’re already in the wrong place
you wonder if when strangers say that you remind them of her
if they knew how her voice could turn from bandages to blades all in the matter of seconds
how her presence could make you shrink
turn you into a different girl
one with sandpaper voice and jackhammer rage
you wonder how others are supposed to love you
how you are supposed to love you
when everyday feels like peeling up floorboards
feels like wrapping myself in cellophane
feels like never truly knowing what life could be
there will be a day
when she calls you abusive
oh you naive little girl
don’t let the woman whose lips blossom with your insecurities allow you to tell you
that the sky isn’t blue
for it takes a sinking ship
to make cries of distress so buoyant
that they hit the surface as missiles.

If words were knives, I'd talk to you more often