PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Sometimes when I'm lonely I like to go through my old journals.

I have a nasty habit of starting one when they're still one beside my bed only half finished. I like to read the half-completed thoughts and the half articulated ideas. I like the still sleep torn dreams that I haven't gotten around to editing yet.

They read like novels with no conclusion. Sometimes I get the urge to finish them. Sometimes there seems to be no proper way to end them.
I was going through an old Journal that had gotten on my 18th birthday. I had forgotten that my mother used this journal as a guest book at my party. At first it was uplifting reading all these messages that my family had given me years ago and knowing that at least most of them were still in my life.

Then I came across one that I probably should not have read. This message talked about a love that we shared, a friendship like no other. He talks like he was home, like it was comfortable casual. Like his words had no more weight to them then discussing your day at the dinner table.

I, however, took these words to Heart more than words written by politicians are lawyers that have effect on the world. They hit me with more meaning than any decree or speech. And at the bottom almost like an afterthought he wrote "you're my favorite". You're my favorite.

Those words hit me like a sledgehammer to my gut making everything in my body clench as if waited for an attack. He said it as though it meant nothing, it was just a term of endearment. Favorite. Those words hit my skin like acid burning their terrible disgusting design into me.
I Was not his only, I was not his first, I was not his last. I was his favorite.

All the pain that he caused me all the sleepless nights years of self-hatred he gave to me with as much love and tenderness as he was capable. I meant more to him, I was his favorite. The worst by far was the realization that while I'm glad a motherfuker is dead, well I'm glad that I was not there for his last week's and not there to bury his corpse, I still felt the love and tenderness that he honestly meant.

No matter how much pain he caused me no matter how he distorted my view of my own self, I was still glad that he held me in such favor. I felt loved even as I did not love myself anymore. I had a friendship even though I despised him.

I hated myself, but I was his favorite