When you tell your friends that I’m crazy, I hope you also tell them too about how when you were sick I brought you a cold washcloth for your fever, covering and uncovering your blankets as you asked me to.

Tell them about how I brought you chicken noodle soup and medicine and water and sat with you until you were finished.

Tell them about how I still kissed you goodbye on the lips, because I loved you more than I feared sickness.

When you tell your friends that I’m a bitch, I hope you tell them about how I used to rub lotion on your back for hours when you had that strange rash that left you uncomfortably scratching your already reddened skin.

Tell them about that knot you had beneath your shoulderblade and how my fingers still remember the feeling of massaging that knot back and forth despite the cramping in my hands.

Tell them how I stroked your hair while you winced and I whispered softly to you that it was going to be alright, that I was just trying to help.

When you tell your friends that you don’t miss me, and that I deserved it, I hope you tell them about all the times you made me cry, all the times you pushed my hands away and told me to “fuck off”.

I hope you tell them about how I held you as you cried about how mean you were to me, while I bit the insides of my cheeks and I told you that it was okay because I could take it.

Do you tell them?

They may not know the truth, but I always will.