By Isabel Brown
To you, Octavia,
It was hard to maintain our relationship after I got famous. I’m sorry for that. I didn’t serenade people very often, since there was never enough time for affection where I grew up. It’s ironic how I am now one of the most prominent heartthrobs in Hollywood as of right now.
Remember the way you’d get pouty for my lack of affection? You’d push me around until I held your hand properly. Hell, you did that before my performance that landed me my big break. “There’s nothing wrong with lovey dovey things,” you said, “I want people to know who I whisper goodnight to every slumber.” Your poetic tongue shook the nerves right out of me.
I stared at you the entire time. You had helped me write the song and everything; the least I could do was to give you all my attention in a discreet manner. You looked so gorgeous, Octavia. Your glitter hair rumbling in every direction to the cords of my song.
After the record deal, I got me a huge condo in Beverly Hills, and I wanted you there for every single step. But, I understood that you had dreams of being a local attorney. The more albums I released, the more fame I was granted.
I know things were getting rough for you back at home. Your parents disapproved of our relationship from the very beginning, and we lost all contact for 3 years. That was when I wrote the darkest of songs; it was my way of reaching out to you from our distance. I like to think you heard my songs on the radio a couple of times. Finally, after you graduated from law school, you reached out to me, eager to reconnect our faltering spark.
You asked how I was, even though you kind of knew from the media. I was under fire for tossing panties off the stage with a look of disgust. You would have never done something so bold, I thought to myself. When I made contact with you once again like old times, you felt as cold as a New York blizzard, Octavia. “Forget about me,” I said, holding your face in place, “are you alright?” You pushed me away with caution. “I’ll be ok.”
I started gaining a more edgier reputation from the media, too. I got a tattoo of us at the beach on my left shoulder blade, and my heart on my right bicep. I got into a bar brawl a couple of weeks ago; that is my latest controversy. I think you would’ve gotten a kick out of the time TMZ accused me of child cruelty when the kid kept punching me in the lower stomach.
All of these neon lights outside of expensive nightclubs make me feel whole for about 25 minutes. Sometimes, in an act of chronic discontentment, I pretend I took you to these celebrity meetups. “I can’t believe Victor chose to wear a Halloween costume to a Christmas party. Do you think he’s sober right now, at this very second?” I’d ask you.
“I think he was born one of those heroin babies,” you’d respond with a laugh. We’d both fall into a universe where only aching abs and painful cheekbones matter most. After our giggling, I would whisper, “I miss you.” Then, you would disappear into traffic lights, and I would fall to the floor crying.
Ever since your death, I’ve begun smoking. Every time I exhale the gusts of infection, all it can remind me of is how I will never know what to do ever again. I hate the life I gave myself just to find out about your suicide 2 months after the funeral.
With all of this fame, all of these clothes, and money, I still cannot say that I have it all, for I don’t have you. I will cause myself a slow death with the reverie of your lips instead of this cigarette in mind.
See you soon,