A/N: I had to write this down. I'd call it something between a drabble and a poem. If you like it (or not), reivews always make me smile. x
A poetic retelling of a suicide
This is a room. A room I hate.
And I stare up at the ceiling and see only white painted black
by the night.
And I hate this life and I
love this life
all the same.
And I'm angry but not angry enough to
do anything about it.
I close my eyes in the suffocating
darkness
and fall asleep to that same thought,
every night.
This is my life. A life I hate.
Goodnight.
I wake up every morning and sometimes,
I'm surprised to see I'm still there, empty eyes in a mirror.
I dress the same.
Every day. Black jeans
and a black hoodie. I like to keep things simple.
I go to school every day
and I'm happy then. Because I
keep counting the days in my head.
Two months left, before it all ends.
Two months left and then
I'm off to college. After the summer.
I had a best friend once and he was my world. I like to think
he felt the same.
We laughed a lot and
got drunk a lot and we never wanted more.
The world was enough, and
we were enough, and everything else was
okay.
I got drunk one night,
about a year ago. And I think you
were pretty drunk, too.
And I kissed you and you moaned and you wouldn't stop.
And I didn't want you to.
So we drank up our fears and kissed away our tears and we craved to be closer still.
So I took off my clothes and you pulled down your shorts
and we were drunk on only
each other.
And I loved you that night, more than ever.
And I thought
maybe this life isn't so bad.
But I think you thought the opposite. You didn't talk to me after
we woke up.
And I see you in the hallways
sometimes
and all I can think is I love you.
And I know that you hate me. But I love you all the more for that,
because I hate me, too.
