08.27.23

I notice now that the cicadas don't sing anymore. Did they ever this year? I don't remember exactly. I want to say that they did-- why wouldn't they? But i don't think i can recall it. What time do they sing anyways? Noon, afternoon? Twilight? Maybe i just wasn't around enough during those times to make a memory of it. Down in South Carolina, they sing. I remember that. I recall the humidity, the air so thick. I remember hearing them the night it stormed. It was late, the sun was gone. I was outside, barefoot against the cool smooth cement. As is seems to be tradition of the south, i stood out in the open garage, so close to the rain in hopes it'd blow on me. And i would feel the cool drops against my hot face. There was a frog i noticed. I stepped out, lazily chasing it in an attempt to drench myself in the summer storm. Dirt and debrief stuck to the bottoms of my wet feet, but my hair remained dry. I heard the cicadas so clear that night. I heard them clearly whenever i went out into that open garage infact. Pulling against the suctioned seal of the fridge, id hear them sing when i picked up a Cola for my grandmother. Id hear them when i shut the door, Ice-cream in hand for myself. 

I knew they were out there for a fact. But whenever i think back to my own backyard, whenever i delve into my memory for a cicada call of my own-- i come out empty handed. Logically, of course they were here this summer, it would make no sense for them not to be. I would have heard them i know. Maybe they were not loud enough back home? Maybe my memories have blurred or maybe i never went outside at that time of night. There would be no reason for me to either way. There is no fridge outside, no storm for me to watch. I refuse to open that sliding glass door late at night in memory of my brother scolding me for it. 

Everything i do has a consequence, and everything i do effects others. Mindless laziness effects the people i live with. It seems I'm always causing something for them. I'm still a baby, i don't notice the trails i leave behind. I wish i do, its my shortcoming. I didn't notice that the water i lead out of the shower wouldn't dry in the morning, or that opening the window from the wrong side will let it bugs. I cant seem to see the chip bags i forget by the couch, i cant seem to concern myself with how loud my footsteps are. I am blind to know that my crying in the shower would bother my brother. I wouldn't have realized that closing the washer door would grow mildew. I am still a baby, i treat this house like a toddler would. I am a child at heart, and because of that i am a burden. That is why i am so scared of inconveniencing strangers. I say yes sir and no ma'am like i should. I apologize for asking for help. I'm deathly scared of crossing the street at the wrong time, delaying those in their cars. I hate that my teachers dislike me, even if its truly deserved. I want to be told im smart, i want to be told i have skills other than drawing. I want my male teachers to pat me on the shoulder and smile at me. I want my female teachers to laugh at my wit. I want a brother who loves me and cares for me. How am i supposed to replace something like that? How am i supposed to gain a relationship i never had with my own flesh and blood in the first place.

My grandmother once told me, when me and my brother were young-- no older than 5, he ran up and hugged me as i walked in their door. She said he really loved me back then. I cant help but think, if i was more attentive and less of a burden-- would be love me like that now? Im sure he does love me, in a way. But affection is a foreign part of our relationship. The most heart to heart conversation i can recall, would be him telling me that crying in the shower is okay-- but to learn to do it quieter. I sat there like a child in time out. Silently nodding before he walked away. He is someone i live with, rather than a big brother. I look out to others, characters and people and men who don't exist and delude myself in scenarios where they would be those people i long for. I look out to actors face and see a fictional brother in them. I lie to myself and say they love me. I somehow trick my brain into having such an overwhelming feeling of love for them-- people who do not exist. For months on end, i subjected myself to abuse and neglect from a man who did not see me as a person, because i saw him as a brother. I had never loved my own brother like i did him. I would have done anything for that man. He has left me tainted, sexually scarred and desperate for approval. And yet, some small part of me deep inside, still loves him as if he were my own. As if he wasn't across the continent, and as if he did not dehumanize me in ways i had to heal from. I still love him to this day, and i know at least for a moment in time during those months we talked daily-- i know for a fact that at least during one period of our friendship did he care about me too. A face through a screen, i was the only person who cared for him so deeply during that period of his life. And for one moment of time, he wanted me back. And i came back. My tail not in-between my legs, but high in the air-- i came back. 

I cried when he first messaged me again, well aware of what hed do to me, well aware that i would accept him again no matter what. Nothing but a stress ball, someone to vent to, someone to degrade, a woman to objectify. I knew that all too well, and i accepted him again. And maybe, if he were to do the same again now, today-- i would accept him the same. 

But i know now that he does not concern himself with me anymore. Its been years. I know through a mutual friend that hes better now, hes stable. Im proud of him, but angry and jealous that i was not the person he leaned on while getting back up again. I am offended and hurt that he refused to let me back into his life again, to get a taste of his empathy rather than his offense. I am vengeful that his friends had a taste of his kindness and sanity even during his lowest. I am enraged at the fact that through neither thick nor thin, neither illness nor health will i ever be respected by him. There mere conscious thought that he is a better man now, and i still wouldn't be able to be treated with care-- care that i so much deserve for standing with him for so long. For being there for him and stripping myself for him. I feel animalistic rage that even during his worst, when he treated me like i was not human; he would so blatantly flaunt his love for his other friends infront of my face. I am stone-faced with rage that he would berate and scold me for even slightly mocking his friends. I feel childlike jealousy that he so obviously cared for them, that he cared for those men, that he was protective of those men, that he loved those men, that he would not tolerate harm towards those men. Those things being the only things i ever wanted from him. The only things ive ever wanted out of a brother. And to deny me, mock me and degrade me with those same things absolutely shreds my brain. But at the end of the day, after i grow tired of crying and i breathe again, i know he is right to not let me into his life again. 'That part of my life is over with now, there is no reason to look back.'

I don't trust that man. i know that even if he is in a better place now, he is still the same man that shredded me. I know that in some way or another, it would happen again. I am reluctant to say that in some concept foreign to me i am grateful that he did not let me in. A wild racoon scratching at his back door, desperate for the easy meal on a ceramic plate. to feed me would be to ruin me. But lord do i wish he cared for me. Never have i seen that man face to face, but he will stay with me always. We both still have that scar on our thighs. no matter how faded, if you look and if you feel and if you know its there-- it'll be there.

White hot smooth lines that flaw our skin, spelling out immature words both 4-5 letters long. His memory is spawned, branded and sealed into my skin and i hope it never fades. I pray that when he looks down at his own he is bombarded with thoughts and memories of me. I care not if he is whelmed with guilt or pleasant memories put to bay. I just wish that he will think of me the same way i think of him when i look down at the skin in-between my hips and thigh. Id rather see to it that my entire leg be removed than that scar to flatten and fade. I silently thank my ill-self years ago that i hit it deep enough so that the wound would heal raised. Because of that fact, i will never risk losing it. 

Such an ill relationship i have with the concept of brotherhood.