It's your birthday today.
You've been out of my life for two years now, and while I
no longer feel any profound emotion when I think about you, I
can still perfectly recall the features of your sometimes cruel
face, your throaty voice and loud laugh...and your birthday. I
don't think I'm ever going to forget it. How can you
forget the day someone who would eventually impact and
devastate your world was born? Somewhere, eighteen years ago,
you were pulled kicking and screaming into this unfair world to
be placed in the loveless arms of parents who would give you a
name and little else. This day eighteen years past was one of
the few in your life that knew whole, uncorrupted peace and
innocence. And now that I don't get to celebrate it with
you, I find myself wondering how you do. Where are you right
now? Who is with you? Are you wearing an empty smile and a
party hat as flames dance in your world-weary eyes and singing
voices clash and swell in your ears? Are you drowning your
demons in alcohol, the same way your parents often tried,
hoping to forget this day ever happened the way it did?
(It's no use, the fire burning in your throat and the
reverberating ache of your hollow soul remind you that
you're alive and stuck in a world that never wanted you.)
Or are you, by some miracle of this fickle universe, actually
happy? I hope so. That's all I ever wanted for you, you
know. Even when I was crying and bleeding and you threatened to
break me into pieces smaller than yours, I wished you
happiness. And I wish you strong, gentle hands that hold your
bruised heart with a securer grip than my own trembling fingers
were capable of. And I wish you the same knowledge I've
gained: that this day did happen for a reason.
You happened for a reason.
