Something.
When we were children, I used to like him.
We were friends. We’d laugh and play ping pong.
We cheated off each other’s homework.
Playing games, in the playground
I always called out his name
and he always promised not to tackle me when I was called out.
We kissed once. My first.
We’d make jokes and sing songs.
Then we lost touch.
Four years later we saw each other again once.
He scarred me. My first.
The next week when I saw him I made him weep with shame.
I decided to hate him forever.
Eleven years since then, I found out last night that he died.
If I could describe my emotional state,
I’d say that I was wearing barbed wire inside a too tight jacket and was dragging myself by my fingertips across july asphalt as I rolled down broken glass and crab shells.
You get so used to wishing someone were dead, and then you forget about it, and then they do. You get so used to trying to remember that good child person and not the damage that they do to you and you to them, and then you forget and they die on you.
My first friend that I’ve known more than half my life to have died.
What the fuck.
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