I'm Still A Peach, Just Not Yours

I try not to do anything out of hate:

But that doesn't mean this is out of love.

(Because, God forbid I still love you.)

This is merely a reclaiming.

Reclaiming my space, my identity, my place in the universe.

I've learnt now that what the universe takes from me, I can take back.

Everything I do is a silent cry of 

                 "I am here."

                                        "I am here."

                                                                     "I am here."

I am not a hurricane, a storm; I'm a girl. I state my claims, and the universe ignores them.

These are my tears. This is my pain. This is my story. I claim all of it.

(It is not yours, to turn me into a manic pixie dream girl: to turn me into the one who didn't stay. The truth is, I couldn't stay.)

(We both know why.)

I have, approximately, thirteen emails sitting in my drafts folder, and they're all addressed to you. I have, approximately, six polaroid photos with our faces on them, sitting in a box. I have, approximately, zero memories I'm willing to let go of.

You think I let go of you, but you are still there.

- how do you forgive someone who doesn't want to be forgiven? I wish I could ask you. I always ask you these kinds of questions. (I still do, imagine what you might say: it isn't the same.)

I think you'd be proud of me, if you'd let yourself admit it. I couldn't be one half of you anymore. I couldn't be a sidekick. You couldn't, either.

You once filled my cracks, and I had to remove you.

"Because, you see, we all have cracks. That's how the light gets in."

I needed that light.

(I didn't need you.)

I know you have your narrative, where you blame me for everything. But this is mine.

That's what this is. This is neither love, nor pain, nor reclaiming - this is just my story.

And so you see, the story goes like this:

Once, there was this girl, and she woke up, and she was alone.

And, you understand, that's the story. She couldn't wait for you to change. (People don't change, anyways, do they? Again, I wish I could ask you.)

And you couldn't wait for her to stop being herself.

And so, you see. I am still her. I am still that girl, that peach, still full of color - summer is my best friend, I've been told we look alike, I've been told I'm as bright as her. I'm still a mess, a complicated mix. You still haven't ruined peaches for me.

I am still a peach. Just not yours.

^{(I did not send those emails, so you can't hate me for this, because this is all the closure I've got.)}