On the night you died, I scratched your face out of all our pictures together. I hated you for the first time then and I hate you even more now.
For 12 years you were the voice and I was the mirror, reflecting you back to you. You were a part of me, as much my flesh as my arm or my thumb until you ripped yourself from me.
My memories are tainted with the stain of you now. I can taste it in the ice-cream that melted on your face in the summers of our childhood, sticky and rough with sand and stark white beneath the sun-bloomed freckles on your nose. I cannot unsee your smile, so much whiter and brighter than my own, it sits beneath my eyelids now, present always, especially when I dream.
On the night you died, I ignored the phone that sat buzzing on my bedside table. Turned it face-down so that I wouldn’t have to look at your smiling face leering at me. I paced my room with my eyes burning with tears and my limbs tight and shaking. My angry breath rattled with slurs; slut, bitch, snake. They still reverberate within the shell of my mind, hammering the walls of my body but silent now, because you are dead.