One Last Time.

One last time am I going to look back with resent and regret. One last time am I ever going to burden my mind with the thoughts that harden my heart and make my bitter thoughts and cruel remarks. One last time I am ever going to think of you.

Then I will let you go, finally free of this tainted air, and carry on with a clear mind.

"I'm only eighteen and I would already do anything to be with you night and day. I could see us together in ten years...twenty...thirty...forty...for the rest of this life...eternity. I love you Andrea Kaye. More than anything."

If only you had acted on those words. Or any of the words that came out of your mouth back then. You'd complain how people always thought you were just a pothead, with no potential, "but [you'd] show them!" You changed. Towards the end, you became so angry and hateful, and everything I (and everyone else) did was just in spite of you. The world was against you. Everything was my fault because I had religious beliefs and faith. And now? Now you've lived up to your expectation. Drugs and alcohol have completely consumed your life, you have no regards for education, and you're wasting your life away. You called me to tell me that you were "once again, on [your] way to California!" You left without saying goodbye, and you only called to see if I had any religious connections out there so you could get some money. What happened? You were so wonderful back then. I wish I could have prevented whatever it was that made it all go wrong. It literally pains me to see what you've become. Obviously your vision was hazy and skewed, because we didn't even last after a year.

"Friendship isn't a label, it's a promise. May the hinges of our friendship never grow rusty. I am so thankful each and everyday to have you in my life, Andrea."

It takes work to keep the hinges from rusting. You have to constantly open and close them while keeping them well lubricated with oil so they don't become stuck and corrode. I tried to keep the door open, for both of us. You shut and locked the door and left me on the outside where I couldn't reach the hinges. I did what I could-- you're the one that let the hinges disintegrate. It seems friendship is a promise you just couldn't keep.

"Yeah, I really mean it about your friend because I don't know what it's like to lose a friend to death but I know what its like to lose a friend but just remember that even though their body is gone they still live inside you and just remember them for who they were he or she is probably in a better place and they dont suffer anymore."

You have no idea the effect you had on me, do you? The fact that even in my time of despair, you still knew exactly what to say to make me feel even the smallest glimmer of hope. I was so madly head over heels for you, and I was always scared of what you thought of me. I hated that I was that stereo-typical high school girl with a fat crush-- it wasn't like my character, and I didn't know how to handle it. I was too scared and too shy to ever just "go for it." I couldn't be myself with you, because I was too concerned with what your opinion of me may had been had I'd been found out. I know it doesn't really matter now, but I still miss our friendship. I lost a friend in you, too. I hope you're in a better place, but I can't help but hope that it ends abominably, and I feel horrid for wanting that. She may deserve it, but you don't.

"I hope you can forgive me and all of my wrongs. Andrea I love you, I love with you with all my heart, I will die for you and do anything for you [...], and I hope that nothing will ever come between us again and hopefully we/I can learn from our mistakes."

Funny. After that whole incident, you went straight back to doing what it was that caused that whole fight in the first place. I forgave, time and time again, and was slapped on the other cheek in return. When I finally gave up on our friendship, your bitter words became the poison in everyone's ears. I've looked back time and time again, and to be completely honest, I still cannot comprehend why in the world you said those things, as I had never done anything to deserve them. Even when I tried to fix it years later, you agreed that you, too, wanted to get together and discuss the situation in person. I guess you "conveniently" forgot, and left for Idaho the next day. I learned from my mistake to never forgive you again. It seems you still have yet to learn from yours.

"I don't know what to say. Sometimes you leave me breathless, Andrea. I wish I could be more like you."

I hope you get shot and paralyzed from the neck down so you live miserably for the rest of your sad, pathetic, meaningless life. Words cannot even begin to describe the slightest increment of pain, torment, suffering, and physical heartache that you caused me. You left me breathless too-- it's hard to breathe when there's a stabbing pain in your chest enabling your lungs to function properly and the tears won't stop their attempts to drown you.

The Boy.

He was so skinny. It looked as though his pale, yellow-greying skin was about a half a yard too short to cover his body, and so they stretched the material over his skeletal figure to make it fit. Any wrong movement, and a rib will pierce the fabric, and they'll just have to go get more skin. It's happened before-- you can see the seams that appear as veins on his arms from repairing the damage.

He didn't smile often, although who could blame him. His rotting teeth were half the size they should have been, brown and grey and green, stained circles on each enamel-- probably from his former brackets. That would have to be the only indicator that he did once have braces, as his teeth now overlapped each other, placed here and there. No longer a straight and structured paint stroke by a professional artiste, but rather a jagged sketch from a two year old child.

Even his body stood crookedly. When he walked he resembled a beaten and abused canine-- skewed, awkwardly hunched over, hobbling from one destination to the next. When he staggered past, a breeze would send over the cigarette stench that lingered in his greasy hair and worn clothes. His whole demeanor screamed "troubled soul."

All over his bony body were ink stains, each with little or no significance whatsoever. A pair of numbers. "The year I was born." A blue rose. "Just a rose." A lego. "It makes me super indie and cool." A star. "Who doesn't have this tattoo?" A cliche heartbroken statement. "Love IS Hell." An ostrich head with Native American feathers. "I thought the Indian feathers looked rad." A true hipster indie kid, if I ever met one.

You could definitely tell he was one of those kids in middle and high school-- you know. The socially awkward one with his just as socially awkward friends that was always quiet and shy and unspoken, teased on constantly for his rail-like body and bug eyes, yet had some profound talent that made him some kind of prodigy. (At my high school, his name was Matthew Diasio, and he recieved a perfect score of 36 on his ACT.) But now he's out of high school-- a second chance to make something of himself in the world. This time, he wouldn't fail.

But those eyes.

There was something about them that would intrigue your attention and capture your interest. He had very large, sunken in brown, eyes. The kind of brown that makes you think of milk chocolate or hazelnut coffee with a bit of cream. Sometimes, they looked curious, hungry for more knowledge and understanding. Sometimes, they looked excited, from the prospect of something new and adventurous. Most of the time, however, they looked sad. There was something deep inside that had been haunting him, something he had been wishing he could forget, something he could rid himself of, causing him an unspoken misery. Oh, he tried to hide it, yes, to force himself to feign a smile here and there, to appear happy and normal. But those damned bug-like eyes-- those eyes will always betray him.

It seems that we are all guilty of being too quick to judge. All growing up, I had believed that you must learn to get to know a person before you form an opinion. By middle school, I saw that other's were not so willing to give me that chance, and so I forgot that oh so valuable trait I once possessed. I became cruel and unfeeling, making my remarks and comments about others that I had never truly had actually met and observed. It's the the whole Narcissism Theory-- we're attracted to what looks like us, and vice versa. Everything and everyone else, otherwise, is pushed away and cast aside while we viciously laugh at their flaws that make them so different and so less than us "superiors." It became a habit, and anyone who did not immediately captivate my interest (or interest of my friends) was categorized in the differential and peculiar society. I have forgotten, and now I must re-learn. Meeting him, I immediately stereotyped and judged and labeled him. Being the label of an indie-kid, promptly the terms ass-hole, self absorbed, and pseudo-artiste came to mind. I am ashamed of such quick judgements, but I see now just how habitual this process has become for ALL of us. It was seeing his eyes that made me realize that yes, there is always more than meets the eye, and true beauty is not always only skin deep. And so, without judgement and without shame, I look forward to getting to know Isaac Mingo a little more.

Home.

"What do you do in your time that you're not working? Why haven't you done this, and this, and this?"

I look up lazily. I had been working on this and this and this, as well as working on that and that and that. I'm sorry our priorities are different. No amount of yelling and telling me "Your bedroom looks like shit," is going to motivate me. I'm sorry I'm forced to share my extremely diminutive living space with my sister who is in and out all the time, with whose lifestyle I have to cater my schedule and sleeping arrangements and everything else to. "Oh, Andrea Stringer is coming to spend the night. I hope you don't mind." Not at all. Just let me go out and spend yet another night on the piss-stenched couch that is too small for my elongated body. It's just as much her mess as it is mine, if not more.

I know I haven't been very motivated to do anything lately. I figured it was the downpour of rainy weather and lack of solar rays that caused me to be so lethargic and soporific. However, today is a perfect, gorgeous autumn day, with wisps of white feathers in the robin-egg skies, blends of greens and reds and yellows and oranges in the ever-changing trees. A slight chill is in the breeze. Beautiful. All I want to do is get out and take a drive, to have some time alone to myself and my thoughts. Perhaps it's not the weather that causes my lack of motivation. Maybe it's living here at home.

Mouth.

My God. I just wanted to try to make it better, yet it seems that all I do is make everything worse. Sometimes I wish I would just keep my mouth shut. All it does is make me make an ass out of myself, and I become a total bitch. My aunt suggested jokingly I use duct tape. I'm highly considering it, looking back at all the stupid shit my mouth, and my inability to keep it sealed, has caused.

Unfortunately, back when I was able to create the noise of silence, that, too, caused so many problems and issues. My remaining silent always made things worse-- there was no closure, nothing was ever resolved. All I was left with were brooding thoughts and a resentful heart. I thought that finally speaking up would change this. How sadly I was mistaken.

It seems I can't find a happy medium.

A Thought.

I miss our late night walks and talks of nothing and everything.

I miss our conversations that drifted off to sleep.

I miss waking up with your arm innocently belted around my waist on that tiny aged couch.

I miss the gentle way your fingers caressed my hair and hands.

I miss the way your velveteen voice whispered, "Andie," into my ruptured ears.

I miss coming home from work to discover a letter from you on my front door.

I'm so, so sorry for ruining it all.

I despise myself for it.

I wish you would write me back.