I killed myself that day
I killed myself that day. There was no funeral, no flowers on my grave. My friends did not create rivers from salty tears, and they did not pray to the gods they believed in for me to come back. Instead, they all smiled. I think, for the first time in a while, I smiled too and laughed. There were balloons; they threw a party, and then there was cake.
I killed that version of me, the one that I was with you. I left him in the burning house, the one you set on fire before you walked away. I probably could have followed you out the door, tried to escape the fumes of smoke, and chased you a little while longer, but I didn’t. I let that version of me die that day. I laid him to rest and let him sleep peacefully.
Now I’m standing in the mirror, looking at myself — this new version of me, the one I gave birth to all on my own. I’m looking in the mirror, trying to forget what your arms looked like wrapped around my torso, traveling around me like vines, an invasive species slowly killing me from the outside, making your way in. I’m trying to forget, but sometimes in my dreams, you’re still suffocating me, telling me your vines are what make me beautiful. But I wake up and realize that boy is gone, and he’s never coming back. I’m no longer suffocating. I planted flowers where your vines once grew that give me back my oxygen, so now I can finally breathe.
Your ghost may haunt me forever, but the boy I killed that day is never coming back.
