This piece is written from the perspective of a girl who has an argument with her friend which makes her question how good of a person she is.

My chest squeezes tight: our conversation is on loop.

I can’t help but wonder, what else was not said.

Every constricted breath I take requires so. Much. Effort.

I thought I was protecting my own peace but now I’ve destroyed you.

My brain fires thoughts at me repeatedly: “You’re a bad person”, “This was your fault”, “You’re the problem.”

I try to fight these thoughts, tell my brain that she’s wrong, but I’m growing weaker. These deadly bullets bombard me, leaving their dents deeply embedded into my heart, splintering the illusion of a mirror; the mirror that I had believed to reflect myself.

It’s tempting to just stop, stop fighting, to let them wholly consume me and my identity. 

Maybe I am the bad person.

(credit: featured image)