Sparkatale

I hate the sterile rooms, you taught me that, but they make me think about things I’ve not wanted to touch, for four impossibly long years. I’m in the hospital again. No, not for me, I’m still clinging on to that addiction you left me. It’s for a family member that I can’t quite bring myself to love. She’s on the edge, but I’m not crying. Everyone else is, I know I should be, but you know me, I’ve never been much of one for crying… No, that’s not true. I said I wouldn’t lie to you, even though you lied to me every time you said you were ‘okay’. You ruined that word for me, you know. The truth is, I haven’t cried since I heard about you. Did you know? They didn’t tell me until you were six feet under, I had to piece it together myself. The red ribbon you always wore, the one with the tag: ‘Do Not Open Before Christmas’? I always thought that you just really liked the song, but that was just another half-truth, wasn’t it. You used it to hide the scars and the blood… I know because they let me in your room and I found it. It still had blood in the fabric, the last remnants of your soul above ground, outside of all of your journals. I have them in a box now, locked away for when- no that’s not right either, if the day comes that I can to look back and think of the good. It’s hard though, you know? Because there wasn’t a lot of good, I know that now. I don’t blame you, I see it now, why you did it, but even if it’s selfish, I’m glad you hung on for as long as you did. You wore off on me, in more than just the writing and drawing, I’ve become more like you than I’d ever thought possible, but it’s true. I wish I’d been able to understand then, I tell myself that maybe then I’d be able to help, but it doesn’t work. Did you do it then for the irony? Your life wrapped up in neat little lines of scarlet, exactly 16 years of age on the day you died? I wouldn’t put it past you, to you, everything was an opportunity to be as different as possible… I started telling people that that was my birthday, so that they would celebrate your birthday instead of mine, because I don’t want you to be forgotten… I can’t lose what I have left of you… I’m sorry it’s late, but when May 13th came around, I could barely speak, let alone write, so, happy birthday, Lucy… and goodbye...

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I hate the sterile rooms, 
you taught me that,
but they make me think about things 
I’ve not wanted to touch, 
for four impossibly long years. 
I’m in the hospital again. 
No, not for me, 
I’m still clinging on 
to that addiction you left me. 
It’s for a family member that 
I can’t quite bring myself to love. 
She’s on the edge, 
but I’m not crying. 
Everyone else is, 
I know I should be, 
but you know me, 
I’ve never been much of one for crying… 
No, that’s not true. 
I said I wouldn’t lie to you, 
even though you lied to me 
every time you said 
you were ‘okay’. 
You ruined that word for me, you know. 
The truth is, 
I haven’t cried since I heard about you. 
Did you know? 
They didn’t tell me until you were six feet under, 
I had to piece it together myself. 
The red ribbon you always wore, 
the one with the tag: 
‘Do Not Open Before Christmas’? 
I always thought that you just really liked the song, 
but that was just another half-truth, wasn’t it. 
You used it to hide the scars 
and the blood… 
I know because they let me in your room 
and I found it. 
It still had blood in the fabric, 
the last remnants of your soul above ground, 
outside of all of your journals. 
I have them in a box now, 
locked away for when- 
no that’s not right either, 
if the day comes that I can look back 
and think of the good. 
It’s hard though, you know? 
Because there wasn’t a lot of good, 
I know that now. 
I don’t blame you, 
I see it now, why you did it, 
but even if it’s selfish, 
I’m glad you hung on for as long as you did. 
You wore off on me, 
in more than just the writing and drawing, 
I’ve become more like you than I’d ever thought possible, 
but it’s true. 
I wish I’d been able to understand then, 
I tell myself that maybe then 
I’d be able to help, 
but it doesn’t work. 
Did you do it then for the irony? 
Your life wrapped up in neat little lines of scarlet, 
exactly 16 years of age on the day you died? 
I wouldn’t put it past you, 
to you, everything was an opportunity 
to be as different as possible… 
I started telling people that that was my birthday,
so that they would celebrate your birthday instead of mine,
because I don’t want you to be forgotten… 
I can’t lose what I have left of you… 
I’m sorry it’s late, but when May 13th came around, 
I could barely speak, let alone write, 
so, happy birthday, Lucy… 
and goodbye...