I'm finding clarity in kerosene.

i destroyed you tonight.
i ripped you to shreds and burned you.

all that you are, all your poems, the one you wrote about me, then one you stayed up on skype with me to finish.

i shredded the heart of who you are and set a match to it.

you're not part of me anymore.

i fucking hate you.

i hope you rot.

i'm sick of you having this control over me when you're not even here.

fuck you.

i destroyed you tonight and i'm going to keep destroying you, over and over and over again until there's nothing left for me to destroy.

no more memories to incinerate.

just thought i'd let you know you're dead to me.

Manic pixie dream girl.

I've seen a lot of things, recently, about the idea of the "Manic Pixie Dream Girl"

I had one, once.
The kind of girl who fit that archetype perfectly.
The girl with dyed hair that smelled too heavy of cigarette smoke.
Leather jackets and car rides to nowhere.
The girl who gives you a handmade journal full of date ideas and songs to listen to.
"These songs will change your life."
"These songs will save you."
"I will change your life."
"I will save you."

Y'know, that girl.
The girl who picks a tragic romance novel she enjoys and assigns you as the male lead and herself as the female lead. I guess I'm Park, now.

Too often, however, in media, the "manic pixie dream girl" character only serves to help the generic white boy #5 protagonist grow as a person and is all too often swept to the sidelines against the protagonist's journey of self-discovery that wouldn't be possible without this character.

I suppose that's true in my case, too.
Though, you don't often hear of the "manic pixie dream girl" being the antagonist in a story.

She is in mine.

Eleanor was the character she related to. And sure, y'know, if you wrote down a detailed description of that girl, she'd fit perfectly.

Park was me. The only thing I had in common with him? We both liked comics. I don't listen to the Smiths. I don't wear eyeliner.

Instead, she assigned me someone she would've rather been with. A mold, to shape me in. And since I already liked comics, maybe that meant it would be a little easier to fit me into that mold.

But I had already made myself out of my old mold. So instead of finding a new piece of clay, or someone already cut from that mold, she broke me.

Bit by bit until I fit her mold of her dream guy. Crumbled into a powder to fit this image of a guy that would make someone proud of her for dating a "good guy."

I wasn't that guy. But she didn't care. I was finding my own way through life, and she didn't like it.

I wasn't the kind of person her parents would like, and she wasn't the type to rebel. Instead of passing me up, like she should've, she took me. And when I wouldn't fit, she made me love her. Made me love her so much, that she could leave me and I would change any way she wanted me to so that I would get her back.

I never made it into that guy her parents would be proud of her for, I guess.

Which is weird, because, her parents loved me.

But I guess she didn't.