It goes without saying really, but the last week at home has been as awkward. No simple simile will suffice to explain just how awkward. 



Kitchen run-ins have become paranoid experiences on my part to avoid running into the sharp end of a knife. She doesn’t say much; the constant whoosh of sticky smoke being sucked out of a bong serves as a wordless conversation. She hates me. She continues on her day to day, slipping past me without much eye contact, but with a dull haze of disappointment following in her wake. I think my friends hate me too. Everyone seems to be treating me the same to my face, but I just know that they are talking about me the second I leave the room. Sarcasm slips to the surface in every conversation about my actions lately, her sardonic chuckle seems violent given the levels of tension in these conversations. 

Every now and then she makes a sharp and witty stab in my direction that I have to just sit and take. I never thought of myself as a ‘cheater’ since I have managed to avoid messy emotional entanglements, up until now. I never thought of the social implications of being known as one. 



It really doesn’t feel good. 



Way worse than feeling predictable, way worse than knowing that people think I’m a joke. 

I caused this corny punch line, but taking responsibility proves problematic. Can’t everyone just be happy again? Her present violence proves that she can take it, the stages of grief seem to be in fast forward since we live in such a close proximity.
 
It happened, it’s over. Why does it matter so much that I lied? Is ‘trust’ even a real marker of friendship when people can never truly know each other anyways? 
Why do I have to bear witness to this?
 

I want to tell her that my hurt and hers are comparable, different but comparable—but I would really like all my vital organs to remain un-punctured at this point in my life. 



I don’t want to get all Carrie Bradshaw here, but why does doing something when you are blackout get you put on the blacklist? Like is what I did really that awful? 
I just don’t get it. Does Old Spice make a scent that covers shame? 



I don’t want to grow up yet; I’m just not ready.