Lyrics- ‘Heather’, by Conan Gray

I still remember, third of December…

You had a habit of keeping things. A keyring, a lock of hair, a stray red ribbon. You held them up to the light like they were treasure. I never understood why, not even when you explained they reminded you of life, so that fifty years later, when you were old and gray, you would look back on these memories with joy. Those memories weren’t even yours, yet you held them close.

You were a gifted child, an angel-though even then, something in you felt slightly off-key. Awards followed you- English, Music, Visual Arts. At ten, your painting won a national competition. I still remember being shocked by the uncharacteristic violence of the brush strokes, harsh, cutting, splattered in vivid red. I still remember being surprised by your expression when you had first finished the piece, a sort of furious sadness that raged against the white of your eyes. For a second, I didn’t recognise you at all.

It had flitted away before I could say more. 

Brighter than the blue sky…

I moved next door when I was six. I recall how the kids shunned me, terrified by the screaming that drove me out every night, scared of the patchwork of bruises across my arms. I was the girl with the weird hair, the girl whose clothes reeked of amber liquid.

But that one day, you skipped up to me like none of that mattered. You introduced yourself as the girl next door. You asked why I looked so sad on such a bright day. Before I could answer, I was being pulled into the world of this explosive enigma of a girl I barely knew or understood.

You asked if I wanted to be best friends. I said yes.

I was startled by the vivid blue of your eyes, brighter than the bluest of skies- too bright, like something that couldn’t last.

Why would you ever kiss me?

When you first walked in on my dad yelling at me, I was thirteen. I was so embarrassed. You had never been invited over because I hid my parents like some dirty secret. He sneered at you before walking away, and I fled, the grating sound of his laughter a reminder of the failure I was. 

I thought you would run, like everyone always had.

But you stayed. 

You stood between me and the girls who sniggered at my tattered clothes. You let me copy your homework, skipped school with me when I couldn’t face it. You didn’t baulk at the screaming or the sound of shattering glass, letting me hide in your room instead. 

Then one night, you kissed me. 

I stared at you. For the first time, you seemed unsure of yourself, fingers twisting in the hem of your red shirt, eyes shifting away from mine. But I never did stop you.

But how could I hate her?

You were 15 when your hair transformed into a shade of damaged blonde. You now knew to inhale slowly from a joint, or you would choke. You knew that words couldn’t be reeled back, and they hurt more than sticks and stones ever could.

One night, I carried you back home. You were drunk and stank of the same amber liquid my dad treasured. I was so angry at you, so disgusted with this unfamiliar person you had become. You slurred at me, horrible, hurtful things that pierced me right to the core. I screamed worse, this beautiful tapestry of treasured memory between us being torn apart piece by piece. You hurled that red ribbon onto the floor. It landed between us like something wounded, its seams torn open, threads spilling out like blood.

Between us, something split. We stood there, breathing ragged, surrounded by the wreckage of every version of us we had been.

Did it hurt you as much as it hurt me?

I couldn’t recognise you anymore.

And as you stormed away and shut the door with a resounding finality, I hated you.

She’s such an angel…

You were 16 when you started shrinking into yourself.

You didn’t paint anymore. The brushes sat stiff on your desk, bristles clotted with the remnants of colour. The canvases lay unused, red scarring the fabric.

You caught whispers in hallways, the kind that made you pull your sleeves down, that made you avoid mirrors. You caught the way people stared, the way boys laughed too loudly behind you. I caught what it did to you.

The way your voice thinned at certain names.

The way your hands trembled when you thought no one was watching.

The way you stopped collecting.

The blue in your eyes dulled into something pale, something distant.

The last time I saw you, we were 18. 

You were sitting on your front steps, hair piled messily on top of your head, sleeves pulled over your palms. Your eyes were faded like the sky before a storm, and that scrappy red ribbon was tied around your wrist. I was loading suitcases into the car when my eyes caught yours, and I paused.

You used to collect things like they meant something.

Now you held onto that ribbon like it was all you had left.

For an infinitesimal second, you opened your mouth to say something.

But the car honked behind me, and the moment was broken. You flinched, and I looked away.

I didn’t turn back when the door clicked behind you, didn’t look back as the houses grew smaller and smaller, and I couldn’t see you any more. 

You kept everything, as if it could save you.

I let everything go.

Including you.

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Signing off…