Lethal Letting Go: The Dead Friendship Cemetery
More than a few fractured friendships litter the ground of my remorse, my regret, my relief. Bonds broken over such high treason as betrayal and as lowbrow as body shaming.
In my defense, much of this lethal letting go felt life-saving at the time. But for every moment "asserting my truth" or "claiming my voice," some righteous snark sneaks in, sticking out its tongue and smelling up the goddamn room.
She had it coming—and indeed, I did. Perp, victim. Victim, perp.
I see them now as stepping stones, these ruptured relationships; my rickety road to selfhood, cluttered with the bones of rivals finally bested — grand moments of comeuppance, short-lived but thrilling.
And yet and yet. Underneath the litany of injustices, screamed in an alley at one in the morning or into the phone while pacing my living room rug, these ruptures, like torn flesh, still feel raw.
They visit often, these phantom limbs, unbidden by social media's rabbit hole or some embedded anniversary. My psyche, that cruel trickster, knows full well that “when you’re done, you’re done” isn’t necessarily done at all.