I sit staring at the screen. My eyes, burning from lack of sleep. My body so tense from stress I barely need a couch. All I want was a cup of coffee and a cigarette. I want to do a line of coke. Break a beer bottle over my head. Why is this so fucking hard?
When you said those words, I shuddered. In my mind we were so happy. I can't let myself get so close. If you saw me, if you really saw me, you'd run screaming after a day. You wouldn't last a day. Twenty-four little hours. They would destroy you. Can you even begin to imagine how I live with this?
I scan endless pages online. Hundreds of names. Why is this so fucking hard? Page after page of uselessness. Faces lie so well. Promises no one can keep. Alphabetized categories. I see it repeating. Over and over, those smiling faces make promises of a better tomorrow. "All my tomorrows won't save me today."
You're so persistent. You know exactly what to say to me. You don't know me. You wouldn't want to know me. I keep telling you this. Move on, forget me. You refuse. You hold onto this ideal of me. Can't you see how hard it is to live up to? Can't you see what this this doing to me? You have such good intentions. In another lifetime, I could have loved you.
I want to give up because it's too damn hard. Inappropriate music plays in the background and my stomach is pumping acid through my body. There's a physical burning throughout my being. If I was taller. If I was thinner. If I had straight teeth. Would that make me a better person? Would that make me more endearing to everyone?
I finally give up and head to the corner store to buy a pack of smokes. I promise myself I won't smoke it all tonight. It's after 2 AM and this insomnia is like a silent killer. Quietly plotting my demise. The bright lights of the convenience store create explosions behind my eyes and they pulsate with pain. As soon as I'm out the door I light a cigarette and immediately feel better. I let the nicotine flow like morphine through my body, all at once numbing and exciting my insides. Everything will be better now. I'm suddenly so calm. I stroll around the block and then realize it's 2 AM and I'm wondering the streets. I become aware and thus scared and I make my way back to my condo. It's almost safe there. Over the next 3 hours I smoke the entire pack and I'm mad at myself for being unable to keep such a simple promise.
You're online, but I bet you're not. I bet you're sleeping and just forgot to turn your computer off. I'm so tempted to message you; my fingers burn. My heart beats furiously in my chest and my hands are clammy. Would you still want me after I tell you the truth? After I confess my sins and you can see how tainted I really am? They don't have a name for my kind of disease.
I have enough change for a 2nd pack of cigarettes. The sun is rising in a series of magnificent colours and it's so beautiful I can't look away. I've given up on the computer and refocus my intentions of the TV. Apparently at 5 Am nothing's on but televangelists and infomercials for food. Joyce Meyer is talking about redemption and the healing power of God. She's so charismatic I want to believe her. I want to follow and be healed. Saved by the power of Jesus! What a crock of shit. If there was a God, he wouldn't let me suffer like this. He would come down, gather me in his arm and make it all go away. Or at least he would send me an angel. My eyes are on fire, and I decide to screw it and head back down to the corner store for a second pack of smokes.
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