I’m Just Desperately Trying to Shove Every Snarling Memory Into This Empty Attic of Mine

Like the summer where me and Clarisse made the grossest food and made up songs while cooking and how I don’t see her anymore since her parents decided it was time to grow up and they kidnapped her into a flooded house and made her fall so in love with drowning that she decided she wanted to do it forever. And I’m not going to blame her parents for naming her after a horror movie protagonist but I can’t say I never thought it was part of the reason her eyes were filled with wasps and her touch made me shy away because I knew there was no way we’d both end up okay. And I listened to her loud-in-not-a-good-way music and pretended I liked it so hard. But I’m tired of pretending that I don’t want to pull out my hair at the fact that I only have one picture of her and that I had to grow up a moment too soon because she was the only one who’d be a child with me. And that I don’t want to implode into a symphony of static when I hear her name and remember how she melted into a pool of jelly and how she let it happen and how she liked it.


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