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[28 Jul 2010|05:54pm] |
"I wish I could figure you out."
( Words. The same fucking words over and over again. Letters grasping their greedy hands in an attempt to wrap seed casings around meanings. She's trying to plant me in a garden of emotion. She's waiting for a heart to grow. )
"It's just the same thing every single day with you, Tristan. You wake up, you drown your assprint into your couch, and you lose yourself in hours of drugs and video games. Seriously, do you have any other friends other than Jack Daniels?"
( Do clients count as friends? No, they're just ghosts. Dotted outlines of former potential. But they need me. Just like i need them. To make rent. )
"You don't even talk to me. You don't talk to anybody. You just call me when you need a quick fuck, and I'm running after you like a fucking lapdog. Me and how many other girls, Tristan? You can't spend the rest of your life like this. You're a shell of a human being. Sometimes, I think you don't even have feelings. Like you're dead inside. You hurt all of the people around you, and it doesn't even bother you. Is there anything you care about?"
( Ha. )
"Why don't you try rehab again? I mean, third time's a charm, right? There's gotta be someone out there who can help you. Just because your parents aren't around anymore doesn't mean you should give up forever. You're too young for this cozy black hole you've created for yourself. Let me help you."
( I don't need help. I don't need to be saved. What I need is for people to realize that there's nothing wrong with me. I just don't give a shit. Plain and simple. I don't want fancy feelings or white picket fences. I don't want to think about what I say before it leaves my mouth. I don't care about how anything I do affects other people. I've invested my life to flying under the radar, so why is my lack of existence such a hot fucking topic? )
"I'm just saying, you could be so happy. Don't you want to be happy?"
( And silence. Finally. )
"Please say something."
Tristan's lips parted ways to make room for a protruding groan as he flipped his dying limbs over the sheets. The sparks in his brain twisted around concepts of dream and reality, as the signal bouncing back from his ears harbored confusion as to why there was sound around him. This whole time, and each wave of female voice was quickly replaced in his mind with thoughts of what he could be consuming for breakfast. 11:30 AM. The neon digits were almost too loud. He wished they were screaming. The back of his hand rolled over his face and glistened with the filth of the night before, as his voice cracked to come up with words accepting enough to the glare hidden behind his mess of hair.
"Why the fuck are you still here?"
( Just another day. )
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