I lost a Friend

I lost a friend.
I'll be alright without her.  I'll just write about her.  It doesn't feel right without her. 


Sharing secrets with each other since we were kids.  Sleeping soundly with my phone firmly clutched in my fist.   Soft memories of breaking necks. Off the trajectory of smoking cigarettes after sex, carving valleys so lightly into our wrists.


And I believed I was way too self-aware to just disappear.  

I lost a friend.  And then, another.


He's in a room just like mine.  Stuck in the same paradigm.  I am not okay.  Thanks for asking.  Introverts are always multi-tasking.   Sharing laughs over tragedies since we were kids.  Sleeping soundly with my phone firmly clutched in my fist.  Pile of rocks and some bloody socks.  Drinking whatever they put in front of us to remove the pain.  Carving letters in cursive into our skin.  


And I believed I was way too self-aware to become you.

I lost a friend.  And then, another.  Then, another.


Every memory should include those we never made.  As sweet as kisses on the forehead of years we called lemonade.  Sharing crayons to draw the perfect family since we were kids.  Stabbing dolls to show the world where the hurt really lives.  Gently tip toeing in the kitchen so not to wake up God.  Listening intently, for the sake of dialogue.

And I believed I was way too self-aware to disappear.

I lost a friend.
And I'm not okay.
Thanks for asking.