Letter #6 "Dear Old Friends"

Dear old friends,

I'm sorry if you feel neglected, but you are not anymore in my focus. I'm sorry if this will seem cold, but if I needed you, I would have called you. I didn't, so draw the conclusion yourselves.

But please, old friends, do not think that you were not once important. I have a very refined taste for people, you were once exactly what I needed. From you I have learned and grew, and for that I will be forever thankful. You were maybe on my speed dial, and maybe just someone I talked to if I  ran into in the street. Nevertheless, you were unique. If I ever shared but a single part of my life with you, you have made your mark, and I do remember you.

Old friends, you may not remember me at all. I may have been someone you hung out with when you were drunk on the weekends, or someone you would see once a month on a gig, but if we just shared a smile, or a look, or if I was holding your hair while you were vomiting drunk, then I remember you.
If you were someone who I considered my best friends, and then after a long time all of a sudden we lost contact, and you think I have forgotten you completely, I haven't. I remember you.
If you were my best friend for the biggest part of my life, but after a single summer, we became complete strangers, I still remember you. And I know that you know things about me nobody will ever know. And also that you will never be able to understand the person I am now.

My life is a book and you were all crucial characters for the storyline, and don't know if you're coming back in the sequels.

Old friends, you are gone, but not forgotten. And all I can say...

Is thank you.

With love,

Cicmila

The Broken Ones

We are the broken ones.

Our wings were clipped
And our sky was clouded
But somehow we had the strength to spread our arms and swing hard enough to shoot right through those clouds.

We are so cold.
Our arms can never wrap all around our broken bodies and shattered minds.

Our thoughts are runaway fireflies
And if you somehow catch a few in a jar, close it tight.

When we raise our hand to speak our mind, we are told to be silent.
But it doesn't even matter. You could never hear us from beneath the pile of rocks we're buried under.

We spend our days wondering if being tortured is really what we were born for.

Fighting back hurts so much it's just not worth it anymore.
We are mere shadows.
The only thing we're good as is a bad example.
As a warning for where you end up if you dare be different.

Our backs were broken and pieces shattered in the wind to make sure we never stand tall again.

We don't know our own names, nobody has said them in such a long time.
Nobody had a reason to.

We are simply

The broken ones.

Cicmila