Et Tu Brute?

Seemed like smooth sailing from the outside, but this ship was always sinking from the inside. You were always at my side, but never on my side. Yes, there were times when it was paradise , but now, looking back, it was mostly a war site.

And like a war, you've left your mark on me.

I wake up myself, and the rest of my house, screaming. Your hooks still dig into me in my sleep. You beg me to take you back, and I beg you just to get out of my head. All our fights are laid bare , so real that I can hardly bear it. Then I drag myself to class, although I glance over my shoulder every few seconds to convince myself that you're not lurking behind me just a little down the hallway and around the corner.

I used to cut myself with nail scissors, too. Deep enough to scratch, but not deep enough to bleed. I still peel my lips through, and I rub my hands until my palms are tattered. The sting anchors me; keeps me from getting dragged back into the past. At least it's not cutting, and instead of scratching my skin with scissors, now I scratch ink onto paper.

For years now, I've been using all my willpower and my might to keep pushing it down , but I know I need to confront it to push forward and move on.

I met you in the fifth grade ; the same year my grandfather passed away. He was a veteran. God has a sick sense of humor. He wanted to foreshadow my own battle, I suppose.

I had friends, but they’d only invite me when their first, second, third choices didn’t wanna play . They didn't hate me, but I was a last resort, never a priority.

The teacher sat us down in a circle and you said that the only kids who talked to you were her bullies. I, desperate for company, drew a commonality. I convinced myself this was an opportunity ; that you were an opportunity to end my loneliness. Our loneliness. I could finally have that sister I always wanted, just one from another family.

That's why I asked you if you wanted to hang out with me.

You seemed so happy.

That made me happy.

I should've never opened my mouth.

I thought I could bring out the good in you. A part of me hopes it's still there. The other half of me believes it was all a ruse. After all, I tried to be kind, but it was no use.

I don't let people touch my wrist because it’s a reminder of when you pulled me across the field; when you pushed everyone else away so you were all I could latch onto. Then the moment I took the bait, you pulled me under.

So focused on whether you felt better that I didn’t even sense you putting on the fetters. You had the face of a lamb and the mind of an adder. Psychological venom in your fangs. Psychological venom in my veins.

You left me sitting alone in a corner on the school floor with no notice , but if I had to talk to anyone else I needed your allowance. If I invited you to play with others, you’d refuse to join in , then you’d claim I left you out when recess ended. If I started talking about my novel, you’d change the subject , then you’d make me tell everyone about our project.

When I opened up to you about my problems , you said yours were worse; that I shouldn’t whine when I had no good reason.

You fooled me more than twice, but I felt all the shame and you felt none. You said sorry again and again, but you never changed your actions to back it up.

You threatened me with your tears. How come I was always the one shedding them? I should've caught on quicker. I should've listened to my mother.

"All she does is make you cry. Why do you keep forgiving her?"

"I never did that, your mom's a liar, and she's just trying to keep us from being together."'

You got mad when I wouldn't tell you my password, so I blocked your number. Then on the bus, you forced me to give you my phone . You said I had your word, only to text my friend for my contact information once my back was turned.

"I didn't say you could message anyone, I said you could only look at my notes!"

"No, you didn't."

And the worst part is, I believed you.

Violating my privacy wasn't enough, you had to violate my sanity.

I apologized on your behalf and you still found a way to put the blame on me, lie to me, make me out to be the enemy.

You said I only did it to save my own pride when I did it to save your hide.

You tricked me into thinking my parents had turned against us when you turned me against them. Being around you made me happy in the beginning. Now you were draining me, but I had nowhere else to go. I had no more options. You made sure of that.

I had to carve my own way out.

My friends said they never liked you. They say they didn't say anything when I invited you to have lunch with us because they thought I cared about you, and I did, but fixing you was not worth getting broken by you.

Ninth grade : the talent show.

I waved to you from my chair as you sat down in your row. You didn't smile, and for a moment, my own faltered. Was it jealousy or were you grieving because we were going to different high schools; separating?

Funny, my father said if he knew how bad it was, he would've transferred me instead.

At graduation, I sang on the stage, then I sang karaoke. I wanted to go up o my own, for once in this revolving door with you, but you just had to share the mike with me.

Too blind to see you crossing the fine line between protective and possessive. You even admitted it in your apology letter .

“She’s mine and no one else can have her.”

Then you embraced me for the last time and for the first time I didn't cry because you made me. I cried because I was free.

Did you remember the hugs and the laughs we shared? The movies we filmed? The games we created, when I believed you cared?

God, and the stories we drew and told. Do you even remember "Portal?" I thought you were the Alancia to my Irisis, but you were the ice king imprisoning me in his fortress of cold.

When you let me eat the food you didn't want , were you luring me in further, or were you genuinely doing your best to keep my stomach full?

Which one is the real you, the devil or the angel? Did I waste half a decade trying to find the light in a black hole?

A friendship shouldn't be tiptoeing around eggshells. It should be on equal footing, it should be a dance . That's why I can't give you a second chance.

I tore up the letter you titled "The Meaning of Friendship." I cut out your picture from all our photos together, not because I hated you, but because I hated how it brought back the fear.

I hope you're doing better than I am, and I still hope you're a better person. I just know now that it's not my job to make you one.

My trust is Rome and it was not rebuilt in a day.

Et Tu Brute?