K.W.E.

It’s almost funny because I hear the words coming out of her mouth and they’re coming over and over again as if she thinks I can’t hear her, as if she thinks they aren’t already eating my insides and making me dizzy and she can’t see I’m about to projectile vomit and ruin everyone's shoes and the already filthy floor. It’s almost funny how people can’t see me expanding, because I’m sure I’m about to explode. Guts on the wall, intestines ripped apart, revealing the glass of 1% milk and strawberry milkshake pop tart I forced down for breakfast. It’s funny because I feel my body stretch, ready to blow up, expanding all my freckles to the size of dinner plates and pulling my brain so far in every direction I hear it ripping, feel the nerve endings catch fire. And no one notices. They tell me the news like it didn’t burn to say the words and move on to how low cut some freshman flute’s tank top is then turn around, listening to Mr. Turner call roll and talktalktalk about how excited he is we all showed up for what will be an exciting band camp, the start of an amazing season.1

I keep waiting for that moment where my skin will bust at the seams and I’ll splinter the walls with skull fragments and the pressure will just…stop. So much pressure, inside and outside and everywhere and its so achingly uncomfortable and all I want is to breathe. I don’t see anything but I’m leaning on someone and gasping for air like some ridiculous fish out of water. And everyone’s asking if I’m okay and I cant get words out and I can’t see myself, but I’m sure I don’t look alfuckingright. And I push everyone away, wondering how they can say they’re so concerned and not notice I can’t get any oxygen in my lungs and I’m about to combust.2

But then we’re out on the field and they’ve moved on to how adorable a bass drummer is and we’re running laps and finally the pressure’s gone and it’s replaced by a disgusting drippy feeling and I’m not sure if I’m about to bleed or cry. DisgustingFilthyWeak. And everything reminds me of him and how he is never coming back and how I will never hear him call me an elf again. I’ll never pretend to be pissed afterwards and he’ll never rush over to give me a hug that lifts me off the ground and tell me he’s sorry, he loves me anyway. 3

NeverNeverNever. It stings to hear it, but it wont go away. Over and over. NeverNeverNever. And we’re in some storage closet of a room when I’m aware again. Sitting on a desk and pretending to read through sheets of music and I’m doubled over with the weight of it. I close my eyes and see his body in midair, at the height of his arc I see him and he’s laughing, thinking of what a sick bruise this is going to leave, then his body tilts backwards, and its going all wrong, and he’s landed, head first. I hear the splintering crack of his neck over and over and I can’t keep tempo, trying over and over to play chromatic runs and I’m not listening and my fingers aren’t moving and I see it, see every speck of dust and pebble he sent flying when he landed, wondering if he was wearing that damned filthy camo hat I hated so much. 4

And I lost his navy hoodie that smelled like him and I’m at the dentist, hoping they find a cavity and give me a filling without medication so I can think of something other than how huge his eyes were and how I wished I’d have kissed him and been done with it. And I’m home, trying to choke out words that don’t come out right about how I’d really like to be alone and don’t need anything, please. Thank you. And I’m begging for a newspaper and disgusted at how it’s so generic and doesn’t describe him at all. 5

Then I’m counting how many times my ceiling fan is spinning and trying to sleep. So drained and exhausted but I close my eyes and I see him. See him falling and hear the crack of his neck over and over and I almost hate him. Almost.6

Suddenly I’m at the wake and so out of place and I don’t know what to say. I see his mother and she isn’t crying, the sight makes me sob and hug her and she’s never seen me before in her life and I think back to every time he mentioned her. I wonder how many hugs she’ll get today from people she’s never met. I see the small resemblance between them. It hurts to look, and I all but run away and my feet are killing me from wearing stupid shoes I know would hurt. Maybe that’s why I wore them. 7

I keep walking and pass the urn. He’s been cremated and my insides sting like they’ve been rubbed raw. Cremated because his body was too fucked up? I nearly vomit at the mental image- his neck at an odd angle from the rest of his body, mouth slightly agape. When they found him, were his eyes open? Staring ahead but not seeing? Were they clenched shut at the pain of it? 8

I’m crying again and shaking people off of me. Something white hot is bubbling up from the pit of my stomach to the back of my throat. It tastes like bile and kerosene. Guilt. I shouldn’t be here, with people who saw him and spoke to him everyday. I didn’t deserve to be here and I almost run for it but people are blocking the door. 9

There’s an ornate mirror hanging above a small table with silk flowers and I want to smash it, wondering why I wore fucking mascara anyway. 10

And its almost funny because I still tell him I love you and I need you back and I miss you so much before I go to bed and I haven’t missed a night yet and after I’m finished I’m always thinking of when he said he hated seeing me upset and how he must have been lying through his teeth. And it's almost funny because I guess I was just fooling myself thinking he cared enough to stay in the first goddamn place. 11

And it's even funnier because I hate myself for not hating him for leaving. 12