cocaine reds and purples

I think you are insatiable. I think you do this on purpose. Finally, I think you enjoy this distance because with space between, you don't have to face it. That's a coward move, and I don't appreciate your concern. I know mockery when I hear it.

Mamba, baby, and it's only 79 cents, I call you, what would you like from Walgreens? Though I haven't any money, I still walk out with a Monster energy drink and no one chases after me. They let me go as I let Grace when she slipped two redbulls in her purse.

I sliced open my finger, because you surprised me by covering my eyes with your firms hands while I was cutting the Skor box. Thanks for that, Not that blood makes me vomit or anything, really, I swear, I'm fine. That bandaid was unnecessary. If I'd fainted, I could've gone home, but then we'd have to spend time together which is completely irrational to suppose, my dear. Why would we want to be alone? Being in open areas allows us to pretend. We can continue our facade of platonic love, when I know you feel more, and I'm telling you, so do I.

I had to Ctrl+Alt+Del that message because it spammed my computer and wasted my typing because my eyes were trained on the keyboard. Applause, do you hear it? It's for an encore of the show you're putting on, and, buddy, it isn't impressive. In case you weren't aware, that was mockery at its finest.

If you pull out your comb one more time and try to brush your unruly sex-driven hair, I will cut your arm. That's absolutely true, because if I hit a vein, you'll die and I would attend your funeral. It would be tragic, but I could handle it. I lost your carpool, and I can lose you too and so you are indispensable, but I love you all the same.

I could understand her urge to ease the pain. We all felt it, myself included surprisingly. I tried not to blame her for cutting herself; it's a disease, I said, her mind wasn't straight. That's what I responded when people asked their nosy questions. My heart knows the truth. She knew what she was doing. She could not withstand this life and so she made a decision and killed herself. The reason, I think, that her suicide was so shocking for the adults is that she was too smart for her own good. She did not cut on her wrists, where scars were visible. Instead, the blade would slice her upper thigh and I would trail behind with petroleum jelly to help protect her battle wounds. I never said a word. I never passed any judgement. When I told her I was officially gay, the cuts became deeper, wider, and I felt responsible. She cut at her legs, where skirts could shield them, and the only time a knife grazed her left arm was when she deliberately punctured a vein and bled to death a week ago. They had no warning, those people with their delusions, no preparation or foreshadowing. But I suspected it months before I was informed. Being the enemy, however, what did I have to prove? She might still be alive if I had motivation? No, She would still be resting in her coffin, only I would be right next to her. My eyes closed in the same fashion, and my homecoming dress from freshman year ruffled around me in an attempt to look less doll-like. I miss her smell already.

I squeezed in a size five charcoal sleeveless dress this morning and realized how much weight I gained. Maybe I eat in sadness, while she tore her body.;A tight fit. I wore my school shoes because mother always preached there was only one reason to buy black leather shoes, and private school was it. I would've worn black socks, but they were dirty from band practice again. Laundry was never my style. I pleated my hair and dutifully trudged to the crowd of mourners, trying to imagine I wasn't a prisoner finally leaving death row.

Funerals are not worth the words. They are boring, dreary, and very melodramatic, not to mention quiet. The folks will attempt to ignore the fact that she violently killed herself and they had failed to notice before it was too late. No, that's not appropriate or necessary to say aloud, though I will, once I regain the ability to speak. I thought of her reaction to that; she'd be pissed, and angrily would mutter that the purpose of suicide was to draw attention. Yes, my best friend would fume at this charade and then she'd put them in her place. An ironic choice of words, because after the gentlemen in his robe finished his nonstop sermon about God loving his lost souls, we buried my best friend and essentially put her in her place. It made me laugh during the eulogy. I was the victim of uncanny glares and stars of offense. As if I care. She was going to live through me now, her mind intertwined with mine, so it was time to adopt the bad-ass attitude. Those old bitches could fuck themselves. I was back in town; it felt good to swear, and sound like her in my head, but could I say out loud?

I realized why I left this place after the funeral; because we have one breakfast diner, family owned, and their hash-brows are exceedingly shitty and unbearable. She would never eat here and now I understand why. Not only that, but it was packed by a sea of black clothe this morning, fresh from the cemetery, and that was the ENTIRE town, save one.