Letter to the Girls I Was

Dear Courtney,

I can’t slam anymore without thinking of you,
And everytime I touch a copy of the book you wrote, I get chills and I hear a familiar voice in my head say “remember when this all started…”

And each time I get up to slam, I think about you, And the first time you fell in love with words and they way it felt when they poured from your mouth. If felt just like the first time you tried on grandma’s heels, and the first time you wore a push up bra.

And Courtney, I have the same feelings you did every single time I stand up to slam

Courtney, I still feel your word choice and passion in my writing, and I regret trying to kill you. God, I’m sorry I tried to kill you with pills and cuts, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I tied your breasts down before you even got to enjoy having them, and I’m sorry I never let you grieve.

Everytime I get dressed and worm my way into my binder, I think of you, and how I smothered every routine and dream you ever had, I think about how I scrubbed your face raw, trying to remove every trace of makeup, from the second you arrived home from your friends quinceanera, and I remember how red your lips looked from my harsh scrubbing and I remember being angry because it looked redder than the lipstick you had on before

Courtney, I’m sorry that it took me so long to write to you, I just couldn’t gather my thoughts and put them on paper without my words being smudged by tears. But those tears are attached to my words now, and they come back every time I slam, along with you, and I haven't killed you.

I shouldn’t have tried to kill you when I did, Courtney.

Your body still sends me monthly reminders in the color red that you exist, and I’m sorry it makes me want to die, and I’m sorry it makes me say I hate you, but it does.

I feel like a murderer, plotting the death of an old friend, each time I beg my mother for testosterone look at packers online.

Yet, I still don’t hate you, because without you I wouldn’t slam and without you, I wouldn’t be me.

And I’m sorry I don’t tell you that I love you very often, or ever, but I want to apologize and make it up to you now, before you are destroyed completely.

Love, Emmett

This poem is about: 
Me

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