syd
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2005
- Messages
- 273
You're a fucking wothless addict.
She says this as she picks up her things off the floor and out of the dresser.
Everyone warned me, but I wouldn't listen.
You don't respond and continue to sip your scotch.
This is the last time you fuck me over.
She slams the door so hard it rattles the dishes and silverware. You almost have to stifle a laugh. The poor girl has been fucked over for drugs or other woman or fast cars or the track so many times she is doomed to repeat her mistakes. She is an addict too. She would never touch the shit you do, but she is an addict in a more conventional way. She can't live without the drama. She needs it like you need the mirror or the bottle. It has been your opinion for some time now that most woman don't like drugs or drink or gambling, because they have lost more to them than they could ever hope to gain. The mother waking up in the middle of night to feed the baby while you lay passed out beside her. The girlfriend waiting by the phone while you sit in an empty parking lot, waiting, the two of you waiting. The wife who cleans your shirts smeared with lipstick and stained with beer, while you fuck her best friend in the bed her and her husband share. The lover who works two jobs, while you run to the ten dollar window. Drugs only give her the excuse she needs. She will find another addict like yourself to fall in love with and eventually hate or she will find you again and forgive you for a shot time. Despite all this and other lessons learned there is an absurdly large lump in your throat for her. You force it down with a little more scotch and try to focus on the good rather than the bad. When she would hold your hand or your head when you where sick, when you would make love for hours at a time, when it seemed like she was the only thing you would ever need. You sit and drink for a little while longer trying to focus. You sit and snort coke off a mirror trying to forget. As hopeless as it seems you drink another beer (the scotch is gone by now) and think of the bruises that won't heal.
The bedroom is bathed in light. The unmistakable moving light that could only come from an automobile. It is very late and you can't sleep because of the coke or because of her. You hear the front door open and she is sliding in the bed next to you.
Tell me you love me, she says.
I love you.
Tell me it will be different this time.
It will be different.
Honesty has never been a strong point for you. In case you have forgotten you are a drunk and a drug addict. In case you don't remember, this is your life, or lack there of. In case you won't remember this, this woman loves your drama. You tell her none of this and don't even turn to look at her. It's all a game, a play, for an audience of one, for God himself to watch. You tell her everything she wants to hear, everything she needs to hear. You think you mean it but you know you don't. You go over your inventory while you tell her these things.
A gram and a half of coke. I will try, you tell her.
A bag of grass and a small ball of hash. Just don't leave again.
A couple bottles of beer and half a bottle of gin. If you help me I know I can change.
You need to score some pills. You’ve been out for a while. I love you too.
She says this as she picks up her things off the floor and out of the dresser.
Everyone warned me, but I wouldn't listen.
You don't respond and continue to sip your scotch.
This is the last time you fuck me over.
She slams the door so hard it rattles the dishes and silverware. You almost have to stifle a laugh. The poor girl has been fucked over for drugs or other woman or fast cars or the track so many times she is doomed to repeat her mistakes. She is an addict too. She would never touch the shit you do, but she is an addict in a more conventional way. She can't live without the drama. She needs it like you need the mirror or the bottle. It has been your opinion for some time now that most woman don't like drugs or drink or gambling, because they have lost more to them than they could ever hope to gain. The mother waking up in the middle of night to feed the baby while you lay passed out beside her. The girlfriend waiting by the phone while you sit in an empty parking lot, waiting, the two of you waiting. The wife who cleans your shirts smeared with lipstick and stained with beer, while you fuck her best friend in the bed her and her husband share. The lover who works two jobs, while you run to the ten dollar window. Drugs only give her the excuse she needs. She will find another addict like yourself to fall in love with and eventually hate or she will find you again and forgive you for a shot time. Despite all this and other lessons learned there is an absurdly large lump in your throat for her. You force it down with a little more scotch and try to focus on the good rather than the bad. When she would hold your hand or your head when you where sick, when you would make love for hours at a time, when it seemed like she was the only thing you would ever need. You sit and drink for a little while longer trying to focus. You sit and snort coke off a mirror trying to forget. As hopeless as it seems you drink another beer (the scotch is gone by now) and think of the bruises that won't heal.
The bedroom is bathed in light. The unmistakable moving light that could only come from an automobile. It is very late and you can't sleep because of the coke or because of her. You hear the front door open and she is sliding in the bed next to you.
Tell me you love me, she says.
I love you.
Tell me it will be different this time.
It will be different.
Honesty has never been a strong point for you. In case you have forgotten you are a drunk and a drug addict. In case you don't remember, this is your life, or lack there of. In case you won't remember this, this woman loves your drama. You tell her none of this and don't even turn to look at her. It's all a game, a play, for an audience of one, for God himself to watch. You tell her everything she wants to hear, everything she needs to hear. You think you mean it but you know you don't. You go over your inventory while you tell her these things.
A gram and a half of coke. I will try, you tell her.
A bag of grass and a small ball of hash. Just don't leave again.
A couple bottles of beer and half a bottle of gin. If you help me I know I can change.
You need to score some pills. You’ve been out for a while. I love you too.
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