Betrayal ran deep in our

makeshift, made-up, mockery

of a found family,

so much so that

we proudly bore it on t-shirts

for all to see.

It was

my misunderstanding

that our toxicity was surface-level—

that it was never more than a joke,

and that we’d never truly

watch each other bleed.

Yet,

I sat at my computer screen,

your unrelenting harassment in my ears,

watching our friendship seep down my arms

and drip onto the carpet.

I said,

“Stop, I’m bleeding,”

and you giggled to each other

as I melted into a chalk outline

in my living room.

I tried to make post-mortem amends

for being apologetically me,

but when even that was met with

resistance and excuses,

I took off the shirt

I once proudly wore

and hung it in my closet.

I washed it on warm

for the first time

to try to rid it of the bloodstains,

new and old,

to try to rid it of the stench

of death and decay.

But

your hatred changed the fabric itself,

and the red bled into all my other clothes.

I thought you created all the stains,

but, in retrospect, I realized

I sharpened the blade.

So I’m partially to blame.

I keep staring at my ruined clothes,

contemplating whether I should

scrub them till they fall apart

or throw them all away.

I have a hard time letting go,

even of the things that hurt me.

But

this time feels different,

and I think

I need to buy a new shirt,

one I can display proudly,

one I can wear even on rainy days

without the fear of its colors

bleeding into me.