Entry 6: Why'd you only call me when you're high?

Entry 6: Why'd you only call me when you're high?

A Chapter by Omikron

Everything can be put in a dark environment, looked at with foggy vision in a dull greyscale. Everything can also be highlighted and bright, rainbows and pink clouds. It all depends on your mindset, people say. Most of my  days feel cloudy and cold, boring. It is what comes with maturity and security, everything becomes dull, and eventually I become dull too. Though I've had many bright days that I wish would come to visit more often, a good mindset cannot change the internal weather. Trust me, I've tried.
I bear many good days with me, often buried deep in a mental casket that I only open on occasions when I'm alone and lonely. Some days are blurry and convoluted, like a bad, shattered mixtape.
But some days in my memory are incredibly crisp, clear and so achingly unforgettable, which is why I can't ever forget them no matter how hard I try to. 
You were tall and thinner than slender, your ribs were so tenderly protruded and cast eerie shadows on your stomach. I often bought food for you without actually admitting to myself that you had an eating disorder, honestly I did it so to not feel voluptuous compared to you. I was sick, just like you. 
Every hour I spent with you felt like pink clouds and rainbows, even when we stood on the parking lot in the freezing cold, tightly wrapped around each other and I whispered that I loved you. Your smile vanished while your eyes turned pitch black under the yellow street light. You delicately let go of me, as if you had dropped a feather and let it descend from the sky and slowly vanish out of sight and out of your mind. A gesture intended to break me and my naive feelings for you. And broke me it did, which you knew. That was the first time. Then you fixed me, called me, kissed me, fucked me. And broke me again. Rinse and repeat.
It has been almost half a decade, and I still can't listen to Arctic Monkeys or Studio Killers without imagining me sitting on your lap, warmly wrapped in an old blanket to escape the cold winds that danced on your open balcony. How you were balancing my weight on the crippled wing chair that you found in a dumpster. We counted the stars and waved our middle fingers to the police station just across the lawn while smoking excessively and ranting about the many ways that life generally sucked.
I think you loved me the same way as I loved you, passionately and foolishly. We were broken and misunderstood kids that pretended to be adults, but we were still only kids fooling around. Perhaps that is why my love for you is still a painful stain that simply refuses to wash away, because I felt truly free with you, I felt alive and impulsive, I didnt have to think all the time, just go with the flow, smoke weed and experience every crevice of my mania and hypomania. While the good times were amazing, the bad times were devastating, and eventually it had to end. We had to move on, it was the natural next step of the doomed timeline that is wild, young love. I have to hate you, I have to remember you with repulsion, because if I don't, I will fall down the rabbit hole again, and I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to climb to the surface. I will once again become a slave, a guinea pig for anyone that says the right things. I can't be her again. 
I need to be stronger than that. Rinse. Forget. 

© 2022 Omikron

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Added on September 20, 2021
Last Updated on January 20, 2022