How to break up with your best friend

We need to talk.

You don’t like talking. Actually. I don’t like talking. Because of you. You do all the talking. All the time. Never give me a fucking break.

“What now” you say.

This is not working.

“It’s working great for me” you say.

Because my pain is feeding you. That’s the whole point.

If I were a poet, I’d call you a shadow. If I were a good poet, I’d thank you. Thank you. For giving me sad silly things to write colorful elaborate metaphors about. For teaching me how to overanalyze every single pretentious word my brain utters (that’s what being a poet is about, right?). For making me question my brain. Am I my brain. Or are you my brain. Or is there even a difference anymore – I digress.

We were sitting on the side of the pool once. The sun hurt my eyes, but it looked painfully gorgeous on your skin. I tried to capture the shadows dancing on your face on the paper, but you were not looking at me.

“When you draw me, make me skinny” you say.

You are skinny.

“Shut up” you say.

I do, and when I draw you I make you fat. But the drawing ends up looking like me so who am I actually hurting here.

I thought you were only friends with pretty people.

“You are my exception” you say.

We left the pool, and my skin was burnt.

If I were a poet, I’d draw in words golden squiggles on the blank page I saved for you and it wouldn’t be so hard to tell my therapist what you look like. And when I say my therapist I mean my mirror. And when I say my mirror I mean you. Am I you. Or are you me. Or is there even a difference anymore – I digress.

We were sitting at the dinner table once. Mum was cooking. Was I crying – I can’t recall. Was it before or after you taught me that my emotions were your least favorite thing to have for dinner.

“What did you eat at lunch” you ask.

Stares, with a side of laughs. Not mine. The other kids don’t like me, unless I’m either eating or starving.

“It’s because you are an annoying and loud smartass” you say, flicking your newspaper to the football section because someone else’s son’s achievements are more interesting than your daughter’s mid-childhood crisis.

I shut up and swallow your words. They still sit on my stomach along with the naked salad you made for dinner so I vomit them on the paper like I used to do with my school lunch.

If I were a poet, I’d at least make a living out of the memories you ruined for me, selling them to all the other friends you have but still pretending that the way you treated me is different because my emotions are only valid if they’re unique. I’d embellish them with pretty words because pretty girls like pretty things and if my pretty memories look pretty on paper then I might end up liking them but how can I like something I don’t even remember and if I don’t remember things is because we’ve known each other for so long that I know you better than I know myself and are you my memories or are my memories you or is there even a difference anymore – I digress.

Now I look at you, and I still don’t know what words to use to describe you so, instead, my mirror describes you back to me. But when I say my mirror I mean my therapist, and when I say my therapist I mean a blank page. And maybe you are a shadow. A shadow with a thousand faces, but every face looks like people I love. You look like my dad’s words. My mum’s naked salad. My best friend’s portrait that I know will eventually fade away.

So. I somehow manage to look into your two thousand eyes and murmur:

“This is not working.”

It’s working great for me, you say.

And suddenly, I get why poets write books about breakups.