Bricks and Bloodstains

Dear Life,

I can't decide whether you look better broken. I mean this as a compliment, you know.
I'm too afraid of cutting open my fingers on your sharp edges. On your shattered picture frames. I sliced open my fingertip with the page of the last year's yearbook. The page where someone wrote "bitch" next to my picture.

They lied. You're the devil. I'm too scared to put you back together.

If my fingers melt along with the super glue... People will know I'm trying. And it's more acceptable to pretend that I don't care where you're taking me. That I don't care about my grades or what college will accept my A- in physical education.

Let me tell you something. The newer brick houses aren't worth much to anyone. They're not the same quality of bricks. New bricks aren't photographed in black and white. It's the ones who have held up their walls for a hundred years. Those are the ones who have been through your snowstorms, your hurricanes, your floods. The shame, the graffiti, the abuse. The bricks that belong to the mature part of the city. The mature part of your heart that knows love is overrated.

It doesn't matter how long I stay here. How long it is before I give way. Before my walls crumble and my structure deteriorates. Before even the ghosts call me haunted.

Because no matter how long I stay, the rains will keep beating on the tin roof. The icicles will hang from the eaves. The cold and the dampness will find the unlocked windows. The bricks will be worn down time and time again. The water will weather the stones and the wind will erode your promises.

Mommy told me to stay strong. She told me that she's sending me away so I can get better.

But if I'm fixed... If my walls are mended, if the broken window is repaired, if the new door is refitted, people won't pay as much attention to me. When your house has been remodeled, you don't spend any more time investigating the cracks hidden beneath the new coat of paint. The reason for the draft. Your story has no value anymore. You're simply a survivor.

And I'm a house that's in the renovation process. The longer the cabinets take to get here, the longer you'll look. The longer you'll notice.

And when you're done, you'll admire my new roof. You'll say that I look "as good as new."

But this isn't the real me. You buried the real me beneath the charming new wallpaper and the unfamiliar carpet. You hid me beneath the facade. I felt more myself with the blood stains in the rug and the chipped paint. The wall nicked where it made contact with your Android. But the cell phone didn't break.

I broke instead. And maybe that was preferable. All you cared about was the cracked screen. Well you can still dial the fucking phone, so why do you care so much about appearance?

The cracked screen with its dried blood. But it wasn't the phone that was bleeding. It was me.

And the blood stains your vintage wallpaper from the inside out, so you plaster on more and more wallpaper to hide the hurt. But you still don't see that my heart is broken and my mouth is fixed shut with your cheery wallpaper. The plaster stops me from smiling, from speaking, from crying.

There's new bricks. The chipped ones, the scars... All were taken off the exterior and carelessly thrown into the church dumpster.

I fucking hate wallpaper.

Love,
Me