We Decided to End things because You died

8/14/16

Your mom should be six feet under but instead she’s waving her arms erratically and lashing out profanities. You should be alive, probably pissed off and screaming at me, but you’re six feet under.  

When we first met, you told me that you were an orphan.

The grave site is swollen and unmarked. The man at the funeral home said that you’d get a pretty white stone but I asked for it to be purple instead. It’s going to be plain and purple and it’ll say your name and the two most important dates that have ever happened. It costed $457.38.

That’s all I needed to pay for though. Your mom thought that paying extra money for a different colored stone was stupid, but I just thought it might be something you would like.  Not that it matters what you like anymore, because you’re dead.

Your parents paid for a service that no one came to, and for flowers and whatever else was on that huge bill. Funerals are expensive as hell.

Funerals are expensive as hell; you would think that’s funny.

You always told me that we were going to hell. So I guess that’s probably where you are, now. And I’m just paying the price of admission.

Are you happy?

Of course not. Hell is sick as f**k and you’ll never be happy ever again. You’ll never smile or laugh so hard that you cry. You always hated these long North Carolina summers because you got all hot and sticky and sweaty and now you’ll be in f*****g fire forever and ever. And I know the priest said that you were in a better place. And maybe hell is better than Tarboro but as s****y as Tarboro is, it wasn’t too bad when you were here with me. At first I thought that I could just off myself to be with you again, but I know that’s not how this works. If hell is as bad as everyone says then you’ll be on one end and I’ll be on the other.

Your mom says that this is my fault. And maybe it is. Because I screwed up your hair and you were so upset that you hopped in your car and drove too fast and slammed into a big rig.

Baby, you knew I couldn’t cut hair for s**t.

When you showed up on my porch with old, rusty scissors and asked for my help I said no. But you said you didn’t care, that you just wanted it so it didn’t even reach the bottom of your ears. I said okay. You asked if I would love you even if your hair was short and I said hell yeah. So I snipped and measured and cut your curls as we sat on my unmade bed. We realized that we’d have to wash the covers and you said that you’d drive me to the laundromat and that you had some quarters in your cup holder.

It took a while, and I was careful to make it even. I noticed two little freckles on the edge of your neck where your shirt collar started.

And when I was finished you didn’t even look in the mirror. You reached up and touched your bare neck and started to cry.

I asked you what was wrong and you said you needed to go, needed to just go for a bit. I tried to get you to stay but you wouldn’t. I told you to stop being a hormonal b***h and you called me a stupid a*s. Then you got into your car, slammed the door and I pounded on the window for you to get back out, but you drove away.

And yeah, I mean, I was totally pissed because you were always doing things like that. One second we would be messing around and the next you’d be hysterical. You made holes in my walls because you were always throwing s**t. My roommates thought you were psycho and, yeah, I guess you were. Always crying and angry. You’d wake up in the middle of the night and pace around and breathe in and out real quick.

But sometimes you were fine. You would read when my band played gigs but when we played your favourites you’d stand up and dance and get other people to dance, too. You weren’t that smart-- it’s not like you really read novels or anything. But you were always reading anyway. Newspapers and journals and advertisements and the backs of cereal boxes. You’d clip articles and stuff them in your pockets and you were always reading. And whenever you found something good, something you thought I’d like, you would read it to me. You had a good reading voice.

And sometimes you were good. You’d make us get up early to watch the sunrise and we’d volunteer at the cat shelter even though you were allergic to cats. And one Sunday afternoon while I was napping you threw Tyrone (a smokey gray Persian) on my stomach as a gift. You didn’t really like cats but I did and that was cool of you. We’d walk around a lot and talk about things. Sometimes we just made out. And then, more and more lately, you didn’t like to go home and so you’d stay in my bed overnight. I got really used to you being there, even though it was kind of weird and awkward at first. You kicked me a lot but you smiled in your sleep and looked beautiful.

You were my girl, even though I never said it. I hope you knew that. I never told you I loved you and you never told me you loved me either because we thought that it would sound fake.

Anyway, now you’re dead.

Six feet under and I’m standing on this swollen earth and your mom who I met the day you died isn’t much of a consolation.

If you wanted to break up with me this bad, you should’ve just said it.