sand in third eye

Yes. you’re right. everything is my fault.

the fact you dedicate your life to theater because the reality you live in just doesn’t meet your fantasized standards was my choice completely.

your choice to attend two years of theater school as aposed to four was my doing.

so im sorry that when you moved away, i readjusted my life and grew up.

and that while you were gone, mom and dad both took on full time jobs,

so i learned to thrive as an only child,

taking the bus to and from point a to b

readjusting to microwave meals and dinners always spent infront of a tv

so please. do me a favor and go back four years,

step into my shoes and plug in my ears to play back the oldschool audio clip

that was stuck on replay almost every second of every day,

your constant screaming about how ‘you can’t wait to move away’

how you ‘hate this house and everyone here”

how you “just want to leave”

because you  “fucking hate this family”-

it’s funny.

because I remember constantly trying to be cool enough to hang out with you and your friends

who picked on me and called me names while my big sister scoffed

and yelled for mom to take me away.

They were mean to me. And you didn’t care.

So i’m sorry if you thought it was unfair when i told you truthfully, kin to kin that

you could do better than your winey dragon drawing boyfriend.

That was the end of the last time we were friends.

I have the night before framed on my door,

a small sequence of memories solidified in a photo booth

the midnight we waited to watch the boy with a lightning bolt scar take down he who must not be named,

a midnight we were supposed to watch our childhood fantasy come to an end,

you dragged me out on the street to argue with him on the phone.

I remember the next morning waking up to you turning your venom towards me,

telling me to stay out of it, to grow up, that i was ‘too young to understand.’

So don’t you dare tell me family comes first,

because as the first birthed you set the example for me,

my blueprints were mapped out from the memories of what I looked up to as a child.

I never turned on Laguna Beach, never tivoed the OC, i’ve only seen a few episodes of One Tree Hill

because even if it goes against my will to admit this, i framed my life around what i saw my big sister do.

I’m so sorry I’m the reason you hate living at home,

and i’m sorry for being a hormonal teenager who still freaks out about things in high school,

but please stop telling me to grow up because i’m doing the best i can,

next time instead of pointing fingers maybe you should learn to offer a hand

or ask if i need help

because

you aren’t always the disney princess

stranded in a tower after pricking your finger on a poisoned needle,

or the mermaid who lives so misunderstood under the sea,

and im not always the one in purple and black, the ugly step sister,

the dark sea monster who should stay locked under seas while the little mermaid

finds happiness in another world because i live in envy of the life you live

and the one i had to give up to make our parents happy.

life is not a disney movie.

so thanks for all the pressure you put on me to get into a UC

and bury any hidden desire to persue my dreams because

you already chose that fate and whether you admit it or not,

one of us has to be the one to live our parents wanted.

so while i sit here in my 18 years of bloody glory making the adult decisions,

take your three years and six months and throw them in the middle of the hall with the rest of your dramatics.

fuck i need to edit things.

Whenever I’m not thinking about you,

I’m thinking about how much I don’t want to think about you.

Or thinking about how many hours I spend thinking about not wanting to think about you.

Or wondering if you think about me too.

Or if you wonder if I think about you.

I wish I could just stop thinking.