an open letter to my dead ex

An anonymous memoir.  Photograph taken by Kobi Blake-Craig.


I often find myself on your Facebook timeline because Zuckerberg thinks you still exist. I find it so easy to forget that you are really gone because you left so much behind. You are someone that I talk about willingly; everyone knows about you and knows what happened to you; because I am proud to have known you.
I am just not proud of the person your death has made me.

You were the first boy I ever kissed. You were the first person I ever had a cigarette with.  You were the first person I ever truly lost.

I remember so much about us. I remember the time your father left cans of varnish under your bedroom window and as you crawled through the window you managed to dip the tips of your new shoes in it. I remember when we fooled around on the vacant block at New Years because we hated the party we had been at. I try to forget that time I alluded to your mother that I may have seen you a little more naked than I should have.

You were pretty and about to study medicine and I wasn’t. You needed to rotate the songs on your Ipod more regularly because Mika The Boy Who Knew Too Much is not something that should be listened to more than three times in a year. And I wasn’t so hot on your habits with cigars; but I suppose we all have our vices. Mine was you. It was, it is always you. I don’t want it to be said (because I know it is) that you were merely a rebound or that what happened between us occurred out of pity. You were my best friend and you always made me happy. And I suppose that is why I both resent and thank that we were something.

Recently I saw someone who is supposed to help me create strategies to help deal with the grief. He asked me how I felt immediately after you left and I couldn’t remember. There is a haze that stretches for a least a week. And then the haze turns into a month and then suddenly a year. The scars on the tops of my legs remember. The stairs that overlook that foodcourt at Carindale remember; the poor person who just sat with me and listened to an immense nothing probably understands. The harsh concrete floor of my garage remembers. And so do my parents. Every boy I have tried to be with or been with since knows. The empty bottles which are retrieved fortnightly with the recycling remember. But I don’t, because I try to forget.

Sometimes in the early hours of the morning I send you Facebook messages. The last 5 have said cancer is a fucking inadequate reason to die at 17. But what I mean is I miss you because you deserved to see 18.


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