They Wish They Were Us

by Jessica Goodman

I think she died from anger, from betrayal. From wanting too much all at once. From never feeling full. Her rage was all-consuming.

Now it’s as if a monster lives inside me. She’ll be there forever, just waiting to crack open my chest and step forward into the light.

I was raw and cracked open, filleted like a fish and ready to be devoured.

the idea that we’re supposed to live and die all in the same life. Doesn’t that seem like too much for one person to bear?

trying to find the line between obsessed and friendly, desperate and chill.

I let myself believe him—it’s easier than not.

I fumble for my phone on the nightstand with shaking fingers, hoping an endless scroll will calm me down.

Her unwillingness to even look at me stings more than if she were to stand up and say, “I hate you.”

Sometimes it’s hard to know which qualities really define you, and which ones have been affixed to you by others so many times that you actually begin to believe them and claim them as your own.

I tried desperately not to obsess over the possibilities, over the fear and the blurry reality of what had and had not happened.

I want to mourn what I thought I knew about the people I love. Loved. How do I recover? How do I get over this?

I want to hold this place still in my heart before it changes again for good.