you know what she’d have said to you people, pretending to be so affected to garner sympathy from your friends, when all the while she hated your guts? Eat shit and die.
I gave her an inflatable middle finger on her 20th birthday precisely for people like you.
And what’s with all the digging up of old photos? Quotes? Can’t the dead be left well alone?
In your last opportunity to do something for her, is it so impossible to put what she’d want first, instead of scrambling to soothe your own emotional wounds, to heal yourself by catharsis, vomiting your pictures and memories so you can put it behind you and forget?
How can you even begin to look for your scattered past with her without feeling like you’ve been kicked in the gut each time you see something that reminds you of her? without feeling like someone has transplanted you into a nightmare ad perpetuum?
If you think that’s what she’d like, being in the spotlight, with her entire history of life dredged up with clumsy fingers, fingers that smudge the little details that made her her, fingers that erect a shrine she wouldn’t give a damn about-

get real.
you don’t start loving people when they’re gone.



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