letters

Dear Andrew,


I was never lying when I used to tell you that you were my hero.  To be honest, you were.  You were the closest thing to a friend that I had back then.  As I flip through the photo albums, I wonder when things began to go astray and ask myself, "Am I the one to blame?"  Mom and Dad always said no but I would be a liar if I told you that I believed them.
I don't know when and where things went sour for you.  You were so smart, hell, you still are if you would just pull your head out of you ass and think, for once.  I was always jealous, I still am, about how everyone loved you.  You're so funny, so smart, so clever.  So fuck you, I always worked harder than you and never got anything in return.  I got a "better luck next time" and a "if you work hard, it will show."  But you had it easy, and when you fucked up bad, you were sent to therapy while I sat in my room wondering where my life had gone.  You stole what was mine and I can never have it back.  I don't care how long ago it was, the wound still feels fresh on my skin.  And every time it starts to heal, you pick away at the scab letting it fester and ooze rotten blood from the past.
I would be a liar if I told you that I hate you.  I don't.  To be frank, I never could.  But I want to.  I want to so bad that sometimes I almost convince myself that I do.  I want so badly to convince myself that it's not my fault or, better yet, to convince myself that it never even happened.  But where did my hero turn and run off to?
You once promised that you would always protect me.  You lied.
You once said that you were going to get your life back together.  I'm looking but see nothing but shattered memories and a stitched soul trying to be complete.
...
Dear Andrew,

I miss you.
Please come home.

Love,
Your waiting sister