to everyone i have ever ruined

Perhaps, if I knew more, I could have handled things differently. Perhaps I would have been more clever. Perhaps I would have been quieter. Perhaps I would have been silent. I don't know what would have happened, but I know this; that if I had known the outcome, I would have been different.

I know that I would have fixed it.

I would have changed it, somehow, someway, made it better. I wouldn't have let it hurt us. I would have kept my family together, no matter the cost. I mean, isn't that what I'm trying to do anyway? One corner of my heart is tethered to you, and even though I'm not sure that any part of me can ever belong to them, I know that part of you does.

I don't know if we were ever whole before, but I know this; we were happier, then. There is a void in your eyes now, drowning out the light that used to shine. Perhaps, all along, we were all just a collapsing star and this was the only possible ending to our story. Maybe that's why I became a writer; to try and craft some new end to this tragedy. But try as you might, Romeo and Juliet still die in the end, and the Parent Trap is great in theory but will never amount to anything more than pain in the real world.

Move on, they say. How can I move on when the ghosts haunting me still live? I was seen, I was known, and in my selfish desire to have you as my own, I - broke - you. Well, I say you, but what I really mean is us. I am broken too.

I am broken too.

I am broken too.

I am broken like Attolia's amphora, like Eponine's heart, like Pandora's box. I am cracked wide open and all that spills forth is hate, because here's my secret; I hate what happened to you. I hate those who tormented you, who abused you, who abandoned you.

I hate myself.

I hate myself and I can't separate hating me from loving you.

I picked up a friend off the side of the road today, and while it may have been a great turn of events for her, I'm not sure how good it was for me, because with every word my dad spoke, I could hear the ghosts of others that broke the family that we used to have. With every kind glance, I saw that there'd been a chance to turn away from this road we're on.

Dad: every piece of your kindness breaks me. It's nothing more than a reminder that you chose to shoot us.

All these things are running through my head, but I know that I have to push them aside and soldier on, because now is not the time or my heartbreak. But it's getting kinda hard because now you've moved on and you're talking about how we all need community and how you want to help - well, what about us? What about those who depended on you just a year ago? Where are they now?

I'd like to think you mean well but the aborted remains of our family are lying in the gutter of our lives and I can smell the corpse from here.

I thought I could move on and help others despite my fears, but grief makes me selfish, and I can't see to lead others when I'm blinded by my tears.

Freedom

They come preaching of freedom, of loosed chains and unlocked doors, but I live with a soul too used to liberty to understand the joy of being set free.

Or maybe it's the other way around.

Maybe my chains are too cunningly hid, the walls of my cage disguised as the horizon and the state of my soul covered over with fake smiles and happy stories.

Did someone fool me or did I fool myself? Who relegated me to a life on the shelf? I'm here worrying about the way that theatre seat felt when I could be worried about some starving child's health. I've been blinded by a dream of two kids and a house, and the lion that I used to be has grown into a mouse. This whole world is sailing south, and I'm fixated on the crooked tooth in my mouth - God help us.

to whom it may concern

The two halves of my family have been torn apart, leaving me with what can only be termed as survivor's guilt. If you think you have something worse to boast of, let me say this: I broke my family. I cracked it clean down the middle with my careless wonderings, and the shattered remains will never fit cleanly together again, no matter how hard I try.

And I do try. I try until I cut myself on the shards. And then I find myself fixing my room as if, by doing so, I can fix what's left of my family. You say you've got God talking in your heads, but I don't need Him to know that it's wrong to wield Christ like a machete. Heads are rolling and hearts are bleeding and all in the name of safety and boundaries. Where is your loving god now? Is he standing in the midst of this carnage with a smile on his face? Does he congratulate you for defending yourself at the cost of some other's life? I hate what you've done to this place. Once, I had a home; now I am just alone with despair rotting straight down to my bones, and I can't take this anymore, but I don't have a choice; chained here by the law and I have no voice.

It's my fault; I know it. You don't say so, but your eyes, they show it. If you'd just tell me what I did! Pronounce your judgement and sentence me to death, just don't - don't - don't pretend it was them. Tell me what I've done and what I will do. It won't happen again; don't make your love be the price they pay for my friendship.

This got ugly fast, and I lost both parents in the divorce, and I don't let you see it but you should know that my heart is breaking from the force of the misguided hatred that I try to set back in its proper course - straight - back - to me. Maybe if you both hate me, you'll love each other again.