What they don’t tell you when your best friend dies

Shannon, I know it's been a while 

and I'm not just writing because your anniversary is coming up,

I think and talk about you every day, 

but something broke in me today 

and it felt like I lost you all over again. 
 

I met a group of women that called themselves the Happy Hags. 

They're all retired ladies from all over and they have a dance troupe

where they tour the country dancing with broomsticks. 

They weren't incredibly good dancers but their happiness was infectious.

Seeing them laugh and just enjoy each other's company 

was so bittersweet, feeling the secondhand exhilaration;

wishing I had a group of friends at that age that would 

so passionately pursue their happiness with me like that. 

And I thought of you. Because you would. 

But you'd never get to be their age, you'd never get to 

dress up and shriek and dance with broomsticks, 

and you'd never get to share your joy with me ever again. 
 

When you died, people told me my life would change. 

They also told me that time heals all wounds, 

that I would carry you in my heart, 

that you'd want me to succeed and honor you. 

But tonight I am small and weak and I don't want any of those things. 

This morning I saw a stupid meme and I wanted more than anything 

to send it to you. To have you respond, to laugh, to tell me it was dumb. 

When your best friend dies, you expect to be heartbroken,

you expect to cry on their birthday and the anniversary of their death, 

you expect to be sad at holidays and miss them all the time. 

But I guess I'm the more selfish one, even though you were possessive 

because I can't get over those women living with such enthusiasm,

can't get their blissful smiles and raucous laughter at their own 

missed steps and out of tune singing out of my head. 

I am truly happy for them deep down,

but my secondhand happiness turns to bitter ash in my mouth 

thinking I'll never get to experience that with you. 

And I deleted the meme I saved because I'll never get to show you. 

What they don't tell you when your best friend dies 

is the jealousy you experience watching old friends, 

and that stupid memes that mean nothing at all can break you. 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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