A Plea She Shall Never Read

I remember a time of my life where you were the coolest person I know.
I used to stay up all night with you, we’d watch a horror movie, something that marked the peak of my badassery as a kid who didn’t know much, or knew nothing at all.
I used to clone how you spoke, the cool words you used, how you secretly smoked.
I admired you. I imitated you. I wanted to be you.
Now your presence suffocates me.
I can’t tell when it all happened, we grew up, you grew old. I’m being cruel.
I think I expected the admiration to grow with me but your achievements, that once looked so big, started to shrink and fade as the years stole more of you; as I stole more of them.
Now when you throw a joke, like the old times, I look at you and I pity you.
I look at how old and used and repetitive the joke is, how old and used and repetitive you are. I’m being cruel.
I’m scared I’ll be you.
I wish if someday I’ll wake up in the morning to see you, not waiting, not bitter, sticking your tired dysfunctional hand in the jar, snatching what ought to be yours.
I want to see you making yourself happy.
I don’t wanna pity you.
I don’t wanna tip-toe around you.
I don’t wanna hide you.
Fuck them for making you the you you are now.

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