Ego Death in Three Parts

Word vomit in free-form

She bites back.
Everything I write, I write because Vee inspired me. A sister, if you will. I remember the very moment: a dull, four-walled classroom in eggshell, and a surly, inappropriate English teacher conspired to bring us an assignment in which we found true freedom. A dusty projector shone an image of an airplane window on the pull-down screen. It made both of us think about suicide. I know about self-fulfilling prophecies, not you.
Vee defends her morals in my dreams the same way she did while breathing. It is a quiet, immediate, and final answer. A perfected chemical property. There is nothing to question, and anyone who dares to could consider themselves vaporized. A small bird, twiggy, but inevitably encompassing every single thing you've ever known. The most curious thing about Vee were her eyes. Large, riddled brown and green, direct and knowing. I had never felt my own reckoning before I watched her smile. She bares it in nightmares, when I am alone and cold. The delicate lace and intricate embellishments hanging off of her waifish, edged figure remind me of everything we'd ever spoken about. I'm lucky to know that I will never, ever die alone. 
Spirit guides float alongside me like balloons carried too long, tattered and worn in their own way, but stuck within grip like a dishonorable last name. Overprotective parents. That in mind, we all carry it well. In heartbeat, veins, eyelashes batting. A different role every time, but the karmic journey always becomes the same story. We get exactly what we want, exactly how we want it. Of course, in exchange for this, we riddle ourselves into madness. The fault of knowing everything, is losing all of it.
The visual world is usually the only one we pay direct attention. We owe ourselves time and wandering in emotion, but capitalism fails to allow our passage. The human experience, the touch of a lover, a signal from a god. What we search for is beyond encrypted ones and zeroes- it is the thing we have to create ourselves. Boundaries, laws, physical manifestation, inclusions and accessories - we are directly responsible for creating ourselves. Have we even enough time? We come in, we pass over, we come back again. We are searching, and we never tire of searching. It is the only reason we struggle, it is the only reason we succeed. Once the karmic deed is completed, we are thrown like boomerangs into time and space, and decide if we've got collateral damage to fix. We become stuck in multiplied universes, and that's why you're speechless when you see the galaxies in my pupils. 
~
With intertwined jealousies, Vee and I inspired each other to live above and below our visible dimension. I'm sure the rest of you can imagine how colors sound, but we knew the mathematics so well that we never needed practice. Our duet. I'd hoped our rancid conductor knew deep down that we were messengers, not apprentices. It wasn't enough.
Symphonic auditoriums are my favorite place to be. Massive, great columns of mahogany, gently furnished seas of chestnut chairs, however cheap, multiple levels built facing the angels on stage. You could look down from the very top, and see everything you'd ever need. I feel true love when I part the velvet curtains and stare out into the vast memorial of all echoes that could be, and those that had been. Possibility seduces me.
I cried, wheezed, and nearly fainted over the amateur Ravel performance. Dissociative, yes, but this memory from above cleaned every ebb of doubt from my heart. It sat in my throat hopefully, ignoring the large cut on my arm that everyone else had noticed, but no one had dared say a word about. Precognitive recognition aside, I didn't trust those conductors anymore. I had never felt so frozen, but they were the ones shaking like leaves.
~
The male gaze is dead and gone. We no longer need it. 
Our collision of starry paths is what made me resent you. I had somewhere to go, and you were an intruder. I knew immediately that I hated you, because I'd spend my time on you when I was alone. I loathed any thought of mine that had ever been wrapped around your name. So normal, so casually successful, with sickeningly thorough confidence. All of the prose I've written about the way your hair falls, or the shadows across your face were actually spiteful - satirical, even. My loving you was never about you, it was about me. It'll never be about you. 
I don't forgive you because I don't feel like forgiving you. We never closed that fake storybook, and I chased the last sentence for years. Upon finding the exclamation point, I realized that none of it mattered. You spoke in rhymes and riddles that sounded genius, but I found them in every single gaunt, freelance short story in the world after I left you. All of you were exactly the same, down to the color of your eyes. No fingerprints or snowflakes to hold accountable, the death of my romance was myself. 
From the bottom of my heart, you were nothing more than the next greasy, inexcusable republican tomcat. You spent hundreds of dollars on blank canvasses you'd trademark with an already-trademarked, Jackson Pollock paint spatter of laziness across yet another, innocent, unknowing expanse. You'd get off to your own fragility and scream at it with gray, sh*t colors, and then scour your social media for the easy-genius certification you thought you deserved. Not even average enough to score a hand-out. If you drowned in that paint, I'd be covered in laughter.
You should be scared of my sobriety. You're meant to be terrified, don't feel ashamed. You won't remember a thing - the opiate crisis has got a crush on you too. I know how much you enjoy the overlapping bodies and limbs entangled with twin fluids and flames, the chase that never stops. You live for the pain. You live for the hatred. As I recall, "it was meant to be".
She bites back.