Book of Suicide
i don t know what i m writing..
i don't know what i'm writing or why. i guess i just need
to empty my mind here. i've grown somewhat attached to
someone who will never be more attached to me than a damn
lamp. i'm only there so that he's not alone... but i guess
that's why i'm there too. we sit in his apartment watching
the television for hours without any real dialogue except a
thoughtless comment about something on the screen. he
lights a cigarette in the air-tight apartment. then he
rolls a joint and smokes that. then he starts cooking up a
batch of crack. all the while, i just sit there beneath a
veil of smoke. i try to remember why it is i go there.
sometimes, he makes me feel really good; he'll give me a
tender look, or say i look nice, or that he's thankful that
i came over. the best, though, is when he holds me while
we sleep. then other times i feel like i'm invisible. i
was so ready to walk away the other day. i got up early,
taking care not to wake him. i gathered my things that i'd
left there from previous visits, kissed his forehead while
he slept, gave his dog a pat on the head, and left out the
door. i felt a little less trapped when i got outside. i
got into my car and started the drive to work. i felt a
little more free because i thought i'd made a good
decision, but half-way there i noticed his wallet. i'd
gotten pulled over the night before, and he'd forgotten to
put his id and wallet back into his pocket. so simple a
gesture, but i can't help but wonder at its meaning.
perhaps i'm just being stupid. still, it'd be nice to
think that there's some meaning behind the occurance. i
wish i knew.