I look back now and realize I was a really shitty friend to the girl I loved most, and until this day I think its safe to say that I use her for comfort. I seek refuge in her arms that I call home. When I’m at my lowest, she’s always there, and I know it, and she knows that I know it, and the fact that she allows me to dictate our friendship in such an unfair manner makes my warmest baths icy. She has been nothing but loyal to me and I have done nothing but neglect her and, yes, I use her for friendship. I was young. Young enough not to know that the world is a fucked up place and that if I ever found someone like her I’d be one hell of a lucky girl. That’s what gets me most; making bad decisions not because I meant to or because I was an ass hole, but because I was young and I didn’t know the value of her friendship. And truthfully, what makes me a bad person is that I now realize how much I love her, and yet i’m the same, I continue not to recognize her value to me. And it’s something that I reflect upon every day, I think about her all the time and I still kept everything since we were children. And that makes me even worse. Why, as human beings, do we decide not not to do certain things that should be done? I mean, I have ass holes for friends and I never give up on them no matter their degree of asshole-ness, yet this girl, who i’d die if I ever knew I couldn’t have her friendship, I just give up on her. Only message her when I need her. Its these things that define us- perhaps, not the things that we did wrong or right- but more the things that we did not do. After this, I probably won’t change the way I treat her. Maybe that’s what makes me so in love with this friendship, the way it means so much to me yet I rarely have it. That’s how things become special- when meaningful items such as an old bottle of fragrance, a photo of a park, a dead rose flattened between the pages of an old oxford dictionary thrown somewhere in a box in a garage, these things are kept locked up and neglected for so long and we only take them out when we need to regain touch with our true selves, and we smell the perfume, or touch the rose or reminisce at the sight of the photo and wonder what went wrong. But in the end, we always place these items back in their boxes and walk away. No matter how much they mean to us we still walk away, and that’s why humans are stupid- they create their own pain and blame it on inanimate forces such as time or fate. We deserve pain
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