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I wish you could see me now. I wish you could run your fingers through the wrinkles of my warped scars and tell me you love me like you used to do with my little pink cheeks; I wish you could tell me how much of a sweet princess I am again and I wish it still rang true inside of my chest. I wish I could look at the mirror and see you in my own face so that I could relish a physical memory of your love, but I don’t even see myself in it. I can’t even find myself inside my face and it makes me so, so scared. I wish I had something to make you proud, – I can play guitar, and I play it well, my friends love to hear it. I can draw some things, and they look decent. I can sew patches on my things with tooth floss and they look rad. I can be nice to people and I can be a friend. But there is not a single person in this world who would want to be me. Mother, I am so sorry that I have nothing to give you. That when I lay on top of the grass that grew on top of your grave you won’t be able to feel my heart beating because I hide it very neatly with layers and layers of breathable fabric. (They say it’s better for my skin.)
I am nothing but a broken fragment of what I could have been, and maybe your princess is somewhere between the cracks, but she’s so far away that I can’t reach her. She’s so far away yet not far enough that I can’t see her when I see my body. She’s very far, but not far enough for me to forget her, not far enough for me to not cry upon remembering that I was born and lived being her for years and that whatever is left of me now can’t be better than her. This mess of blue, pink and white can’t be better than the sweet girl you embraced one last time before you and my face got hollowed out by a projectile.
And when I see myself, I can’t tell if I’m actually what I say I am or if I’m just a very elaborate attempt at being born again as someone completely different after they took you away from me. If he’s actually there, or if I just wish I would have died by your side that day so much that I killed that little girl along with you. That we could have bled out in the grass on that yellow autumn sunset, hugging each other. Is it selfish to wish for that? To wish for my father to be the one to carry all of the grief alone, while I bask in the sunlight of heaven by your side?
Would I have gone to heaven if I had died that day? Could I have ever had a place reserved for me in heaven, or has my soul been tainted since forever?