When I met you for the first time, we defied the sacred laws of physics, you and I. You repelled and attracted me in one paradoxical mutually exclusive occurrence. I hated you because you reminded me of everything that was wrong with me, but I loved that you wore my flaws so proudly. A conflicting shadow of you, I was.
You never apologize for anything, even when you’re so blatantly wrong. You don’t take “no” for an answer. You don’t speak to your dad and your mom likes it that way. You bring out the absolute worst in me, the narcissistic, argumentative, reckless monster I try so hard to keep hidden and locked away. That’s the gist of what I’ve figured out about you after all these years and I can’t decide if it’s what I love or hate about you.
Your zest for revenge, the drops of pink hair dye in your mother’s shampoo, her toothbrush swirling around in your ammonia-scented toilet. Your silence when you have to take responsibility for something. My echoing laughs at your sarcastic comments. The holographic glitter on my face and smudged eyeliner in the shape of a dick on yours. Our blood-curdling screams from the shock of the cold water that night in Newport. Our interference with gravity when our feet take off from the ground in our dance parties.
Your mind is sick and twisted, it’s everything wrong with you and me. And I hate that we think the same. I love that somebody understands me the way you do, but it scares me that our mind is one unanimous blur of unforgivable thoughts and bitter sentiments. It scares me that we are the same, but it scares me more that we aren’t. Because now that you’re gone, our shared flaws are all that I have left of you.
I resent you for everything you have and are. I resent your private school uniform and your absences from school, I resent your C+ in trigonometry and your lazy eye rolls, and your maniacal smile when we sped down the highway. Most of all, I resent the way you are okay with your flaws and the fact that you don’t need me as much as I need you.
Without you, I’m a boring, responsible, timid writer with a shaky hand from too many cups of coffee. You remind me of why I’m alive and why I’m not just a speck of dust. You make me remember how precious life, time, and we are. You were everything I loved about the world and hated about myself. You were crazy and beautiful and vulnerable, but you were angry and self-centered and scared.
You were a rather frightening mix of it all, terrifying and powerful, but fragile and sheltered. You’ll always be a part of me and I don’t know if that’s a comforting or damning thought. You taught me to love the worst parts of myself, so much so, that they’re all I have left of you.