SANGRIA

Lisa Dearlove

Dear Jane,

The past few years have been a combination of mascara-stained pillowcases and lemon smiles. The bitter taste of what you said will always linger in my mouth, rotting my teeth, forever changing my smile. 
         I wish I could say that it was all worth it, that the good times we had together outweigh the bad, but your words resemble honeybees, small and innocent but leave their stinger buried deep beneath my skin. 
         Although we wear similar scars, you do not hide yours, you wear them like medals telling anyone that will listen that you are a survivor. I believed you; I thought you were the hero to my story but when you took your golden mask off, I realised that when the spotlight does not shine on it, the mask is actually a dull yellow, and underneath is just a hurt little girl.
         I am tired of bathing in bathtubs filled with bio-oil, hoping to fade the scars that you will say you played no part in. I’m also tired of your bitterness dissolving the foundations of everything I once believed in. 
         I hope one day, when I meet someone as kind as I used to be, I will not be like you. I will not make them bitter in order to make the perfect lemonade, instead I will grab the wine to make sangria and I will enjoy their sweet orange flavour.
         Please do not look for me amongst the other decaying fruit you have discarded on the ground because I will not be there, as I am leaving, and this is my goodbye.

         Love, your daughter.