Scott Anderson is Dead.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
a real and raw reflection

Submitted: November 30, 2010

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Submitted: November 30, 2010



The assumption...
"She did not mourn the right way"
"She's too morbid"
"She's become too negative"
"She dyed her hair for a change"
Scott Anderson is dead.
There, I said it--what everyone else is afraid to say.
A phrase so overused in one's mind that it has truly lost it's meaning in this vast sparkling city of Babylon.
It is right to judge the living but not the dead...

The Truth
There is no right way to mourn
Morbidity is a snapshot of the preoccupation that my mind has become
I’m negative because my best friend and first love killed himself
And I dyed my hair so that I'm not reminded of this everytime I look in the mirror
This is not enough.
This is never enough.
I'm sick of this.
I am a walking tabloid--critiqued, analyzed, judged, brushed off--all held high on a broken pillar for the whole world to view.
Imagine the moment.
Imagine the moment someone whispered something terrible about you and your heart raced with anxious disappointment.
Now magnify that and imagine it intricately intertwined with a tragedy that gives you the endless shocks and emotional seizures of a broken heart. Your tragedy.

This is a chapter in my life. A chapter so dramatized and so lost in public discussion that the truth remains so surreal:
Scott Anderson is dead.

Every time a car passes by me there is no way in hell it can possibly be him.
Every time I pass by our old work I know that I could never bring him ice cream on his break.
Every time my mum makes me lunch for school, I know there would be no point in her making a matching sandwich like she used to.
I had to delete "Scott's Cell" from speed dial to avoid the temptation. Because no matter how much I call his phone, I know that I'll never hear his voice to answer.

So you ask me advice on relationships. "It is a tragedy much like yours," you say when your boyfriend is forced to move away for school. It hurts just as bad when your heart is broken.
Well, be glad.
Be glad that you can whisper one day to your friend, "Oh my God, look at his new girlfriend."
That one day you can experience that awkward and bitter pause when you accidentally bump into him at the mall.
That one day you'll see each other again and at least try to remember that first love you once had.

Because my first love is in a cold metal urn 5 or 6 hours away, and all I can remember, is giving every bit of my heart to every single grain of that body.

You were allowed to attend the memorial.
They wanted to hear your poems.
You can move forward.

Cheated out of a memory.
Cheated out of closure.
Cheated out of a grave.

Remember September 21st
The second you heard and you began to cry.
Imagine that magnified.

I loved him so much.
But I told him I hated him.
I called him every night.
But I ignored his calls.
I spent every single day with him since I first met him.
Except that day.

For me it was September 20th
It wasn't a teacher but a detective
It wasn't soothing, but accusing.
"What did your text messages mean?"
"What did you tell him to make him do this?"
"No offense but.... How did he do it?"

It's times like these where they say "this is where you find out who your REAL friends are." But what do you do when you find out there's only one person who would've stayed.
But Scott Anderson is dead.

© Copyright 2018 CatPacheco. All rights reserved.

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