I hate you.
I say these three words a lot. To my parents. To Tommy. To myself.
It's always true.
But maybe not true enough.
I hate my parents because they never taught me how to love. I hate Tommy because he treats me like shit two-thirds of the day. I hate myself because I want more but I don't know what "more" is or how to get it.
Right now, it's Tommy's turn to feel my hate. He takes it in his veins and in his nose and down his throat and on his tongue and on his lips and on his dick. He takes it from girls and from boys, from white powder and little pills and burning whiskey and skunky smoking herbs. Tommy's all vices and sometimes he treats me like I'm one of them.
Like he needs me.
Like he hates me.
Like I'm dangerous.
Like I'm bad for him.
He's straight when I'm around, blissed out and flying; we're so good together. He regrets it the moment I leave. Swearing he's fucked up, that I fuck him up. Telling me to stay away.
So I do.
I do my own thing for a while. I play Good Girl for my parents, Honor Roll for my school, Best Friend for Jenna... I take my brother out for burgers and tease him light when he's around his friends. I'm perfect Cool Sister.
Everyone loves it.
But Tommy's like my vice too, 'cause when he's gone, I'm good for some time, but then I start to itch. I ignore it when it's just my skin. That's easy. I ignore it in my veins. That's easy too. I ignore it when presses behind my lids, though that's harder, but when it rattles my bones, I have to pay it some attention. When I'm hands-trembled, can't breathe, legs won't stop shaking with needing him, that I can't ignore.
I have to do something.
I let go of Cool Sister.
I let go of Best Friend.
I let go of Honor Roll.
I let go of Good Girl.
All I can do is try to relieve the itch.
And there's not many ways I know how.