we arrived at your place, and the trailer smelt of burned, yet wet, cigarettes.
the sofa was stained, the counters were dusty. but it was a hell of a lot better than before.
i hate the past. but you're the only acception.
you're the only acception for a lot of things i normally despise.
and i hate that, more than i can even imagine.
"you can sleep in my room, but if i end up next to you its because i sleep walk."
"all good, thank you by the way." that was probably the first actual sentence i said to you.
"of course, i don't know what you're going through, but i want to help," you said with an unlit cigarette in your mouth as you reached for the liquor.
"care for a glass?" you said, in a very unrealistic british accent.
contradicting whether one glass could fuck me up, i answered,
"sure"
"mmmk" you said pouring up another glass.
i seated myself on the stained couch, you set the glasses on the coffee table.
"is this hard liquor, in a wine glass?"
"yeah, what? cant take it?"
"i can i jus-" i shouldnt be here.
you took my glass and drank half of it.
"there."
an hour went by and i was barely tipsy.
it takes about 3 bottles of hard liquor to get me blackout.
"okay im gonna head to bed." you told me.
i stood up, heading into what i assumed was the bedroom.
the bed wasnt made, that night i slept on top of the comforter.
i liked sleeping.
i slept all my problems away.
drinking made me tired.
i just wish you had actually gone to bed.
