One Year "Stories forgotten, vague echos remain. I don't know who I am, anymore. Or who I was, before. I'm this now, something undefinable Something different, but you just know I wasn't before. Much lost, gone, irretrievable Not objects, not that easy What makes a person, when all they have is gone? Why do you still believe the lies the stories, fables, accusations when the one who told them is and will always be gone? I outlived her, by days by years, now but it still lingers. 'Sorry' doesn't cover it. It's not enough. Does it matter? Figures. I'm breathing, not happy. I'm walking, going nowhere. My eyes are open, seeing nothing good. My mouth is moving, saying nothing worthy. Staring at a gravestone, her's and too clean for what she's done. Wanting to say words, anything to clear the air but it's all comin' out smoke. Ash, ember, and still not hot enough for the sins she's wrought. You're dead, I say to granite words, to a name called no longer. You can't hurt me, I lie to the dirt and the body beneath. Why do they still believe you? I ask, but she can't answer. I remember the bruises. I remember the names you decided I had. I remember the air you stole, with rope and iron. I still have the scars, I hope you know. I still have the burns, and I saw the bottle in your hand. I still have the nightmares, and you're in every last one of them. I-. I didn't want you to die. I didn't want you to catch the wind. I didn't want things to be like this. You-- You should have stayed. You should have explained, told all of them. You should have fixed what you broke. But you're gone, and it's still wrong. The names are still known, even if you can't speak them. It's still broken. And I. (Am the monster you guessed.) (Am wrong, no matter what I say.) (Am the reason you aren't here today.) And I can't fix it." - - - Two Years "I'm not sorry, for making you leave. I'm not happy you're gone. I wanted it, all of it, to stop. But you, gone? Swaying in the breeze? With that note, tied to your wrist? It gave them power. It gave them reason. It gave them fear. You came to town, dead-eyed and angry. Why? Who hurt you so badly that only my pain would bring a smile to your face? You drew blood, and cried my name. Not wanting my help, only my blame. Who made you think I deserved it? What made me so deserving? Seven years. Of lies, of crying wolf. Or laying traps when the townspeople wouldn't listen to your pleas any longer. What gave you the strength to carry on? I stopped trying, so early. It couldn't have been fun. What kept you going? No matter how hard you tried, I came back. (Even when I wanted to stay gone.) Was that the challenge? To strike down a monster? Did you see something, in me, so soon, right from the start that you knew had to be killed? Did it make you mad, when I lived? Was it a game to you? You don't deserve to be here. Dead, at all, but here, in this cemetery. Overlook'd by your ol' dad's parish. He still blames me, you know. He thinks I'm the vile beast, the nightmare that stole his 'precious, perfect little girl'. Does he know how wrong he was? Is? I gave you options. I offered you help. All on one condition: That you tell everyone the truth. But the truth was so vile, just as vile as me, you thought. That you'd rather take your lies to the grave. Than use even your last words to clear my name. Did you feel validation? Did you think you would be understood, in your one-word note? Was that all this was? Desperation, for someone, even a mad-house group all equally dedicated to the same insane cause, to listen? Were you lonely? Did you just want someone to listen? To understand? I won't say, "I would have listened." I won't say, "You could have been happy." I won't say, "It would have been alright." Those words didn't help me, but what do I know? I'm the one still breathing, so maybe I'm wrong. Just like you always said." - - - Three Years "You're a martyr to them. Are you proud of that? Or are you infuriated, that all that lived on of you was that ball of lies? I found your journal. Or diary, I guess you'd prefer. It almost made me wish I had let you win. Almost. You had a rough life, I won't pretend you didn't. No one should have lived that. That loving god your dear old dad shouts about from his pulpit should have let you die before you went through that. But that's no excuse. I heard the same, gained the same bruises floated through the world with just as little love. I was just as passed over. Just as ignored, kicked, and shunned. Did you see me hurting people? Did you see me running around, spreading lies? Did you see me, or did you see yourself? Is that why you kept trying? Is that why you left? You wanted some part of you, in you or outside, in strangers and mirrors alike gone, however you could manage? This time, I will say, "I would have listened." Now, I can say, "I would have helped." Now, all I can say is, "Why did you have the strength to leave when I didn't?" Seven years, and I never saw you the way you saw me. That's the difference, isn't it? That you bore hate Pain Suffering Apathy And looked out at the world, thinking, "Someone should suffer like I did." Seventeen years and longer still, I felt the same but not once never at all did I look out and think the same. You wanted company in misery. I wanted to be left alone. Years on and years off, and in every face I saw I found a reason to say and repeat "No one should suffer like me." I guess I'm not as much you as you thought." - - - Four Years "Another year, another night like this Last year, I thought of you in pity This year, and hopefully forever I think of you in rage. I've worked hard, to hate you. I didn't before, and I bet wherever you are above, below, besides -- whatever you're in shock at my words. I never hated you, if you can believe it. I hated what you did, but more than that, I was confused. I didn't understand. Why me? I wondered. Why me and no one else, I would scream to anyone listening. Which, thanks to you, was never much of anyone. Last year, I got my answer. I saw the tear-stained pages. I read what you wrote, before you met me, as you ruined my life, and the night yours met its end. A different style, and worse spelling besides, but the chicken scratch on those pages matched the messages in my notebooks. Y'know, the ones you destroyed, again and again. I have to ask, but I know you can't answer Did you ever read them? Did you crack those ash-caked pages, and read the water-run ink If you did, how many times did you see "I want to die" and think "I'll make sure you do"? How did you do it, I want to know. How did you look them dead in the eyes and tell them with a straight face "It's not my fault" and have them believe you? Why did everyone believe you, but no one believed me? My "freak" friends are doctors, nurses and clerks managers and producers They aren't druggies or dead Not broken or beaten Not gone, Like you are, you're dead. You're dead and I'm still here. I'm not sure which of us got the better deal, here. If you'd stayed, you would have been loved adored, even, if only for your lies. But they would still have loved you. If I was dead, I would still be hated reviled but, again, only for your lies. But I would still have been gone. I still haven't found anything in myself to love, the way you wanted But I think hating you will be the first step." - - - Five Years "Is it nice where you are? Do people listen? Do they believe you, even when you tell the truth? It's been a long, long year. Things ha-- It's not been good, here, let me tell ya. I hope you're happy, where you are. I hope the people are nice. I hope the skies are just the right type of cloudy. I hope there are movie theaters, always playing the best, with empty seats in just the right place. I hope there's always a warm blanket waiting after the cold, cool rain. I hope there's nice food, and stories abound. I hope there's quiet places to sit and read. I hope there's a place for me. 'Cause I'll need it, after all this. I know it's no warning, no time to prepare, so I hope there's already room. 'Cause I can't hold on any longer. Most of all, I hope you've been listening. So I don't have to explain it all again, when I see you. 'Cause I'll be seein' you soon." - - - Six Years (One Year) "He's gone now. I hope you're happy. You got what you wanted. And so did he.
Stories Told to the Grave of the Girl Who Wanted Me Dead, One for Each Year She’s Been Gone (And One for Me)