This room tells of lies…

That echo louder than silence.  Your eyes scream,  “Take me away. ” Now I’m here waiting. 

I’m not sleeping, again.  I think I might actually be zombie-walking at this point.  I’m afraid to.  The last time I slept,  there was so much compounding shit that led up to me losing my friend.  He’s an alcoholic.  He’s been sober for nine years. I was always so proud of him, but so shit at telling him.  The last time I slept,  I kept waking up with with nightmares of him getting shit faced. It was my fault.  He made sure to tell me it was because of me that he was drinking  again.  Then in real-non-dream-life, he told me that he’d been thinking about drinking again. Then he told me he’d been thinking about doing it again because of me and what happened. I’m the one that fucked everything up, after all, anyway. I’ve passed out since, but luckily, I wake right back up. Speaking of which, I need more coffee.

I can’t see why you stay in my life. And I can’t. I can’t see me through your eyes. 

He asked me why I didn’t just walk away. Why I care. Well no, you mostly told me that I didn’t care. But he can’t see him the way that I do. He doesn’t-can’t understand. He can’t understand how much my (formerly our) friends have been trying to hold my head above the water. But it’s moot. I’m the one who fucked everything up. I’m the horrible person. Which I’m supposedly just saying without actually believing. (Passive aggressive Sio is passive aggressive.) Which is a load of fucking bullshit. (Ok, aggressive Sio is aggressive.)

I’m sorry I’m not there. So how do you still care? I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. You’re still alone. Still alone. Still alone.

I’m exhausted. Good things and bad things happen and I can’t tell him about them. I’ve spent so much of my life feeling like all I do is hurt people that I sometimes (often) wonder why I’m still here.

You’re home alone again. You wish this pain would end. There I go. There I go. There I go. And you’re alone. You’re alone. You’re alone.

The other night he told me he was on his way to kill himself. Not in those words. I know him too well, though. I knew what he meant by what he said. He hung up on me. He stopped answering. I screamed. I cried. I yelled and punched the wall. I wanted to drive down there. I knew I wouldn’t make it. Both and time and in one piece. It was pouring. Driving through the pass in the cold, pouring rain at night would have been deadly. But I was terrified. I know what happens. Just like any other death. It’s the brain winning. But he was mine to care for. It was my job to keep him in one piece. To keep him from the edge. To keep him safe. I promise you that from day one. He doesn’t remember. It’s okay. I do. I won’t forget. Even if he does.

I will change, and you will be okay, for now.

I just can’t stop the brain from screaming the mantra, “It’s my fault.” I didn’t do enough, I didn’t do my job. I fail at everything. I’m a horrible person.

You’re keeping me right here, holding on to your faith. You’re drowning all your fears with dreams of better days.

He texted me that he didn’t do it, but that he may later. I just don’t know how to respond to that other than to give him a hundred reasons not to. Hopefully one will mean something to him, since I don’t. No worthless person would, I’d imagine. And, I’m a horrible person. And yes, from head to toe, inside to outside, I believe that. All I do is fuck up and cause pain.


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