Everlong

What Will Soon be the Death of Me

Will I die anytime soon? Anytime could mean tonight. I could walk out of the hotel, out of my own mind, to never speak again. To never carry on another conversation again. To never feel anything again. I wouldn't complain. I'll die, fully aware. And that's okay. I'll hint at things until someone suspects something, tells me, and by then it will be far too late. Who will I be letting down? There's plenty of people just like me. What will there be to miss?

I look back to the mirror. I've lost weight again. The ribs in my chest are sticking out ever so slightly. My hip bones stick out. My legs only touch at the knees. Until I'm dead and buried, I'll be alone, and maybe it's my fault. It's that loneliness that when you think about the people who left you, your blood goes cold. That feeling where the chill starts at your heart and travels to your fingers and toes.

I break down. I miss him. What can I say. It cannot be said more simply. I've never valued a friend's very presence so greatly. We told each other that if one of us killed themselves, the other is going right after. Investing myself into one single promise for both of us to keep has honestly kept me alive. I'm not killing the Killer. If I kill myself, I'm as responsible as he is. I'm not killing the man. I'm not killing the guy who I value so much. I'm not going to hurt the man who was sitting down, across from me, having KFC, in public, listening to me talk about my issues. I'm not hurting the guy who calls just to ask if I'm safe. The Killer says that he lost his friends and the people he was close with. I'm confused. I miss him and wish for his presence, whilst fucking imbeciles are leaving him. I wish I could take away the pain. The Killer doesn't deserve it.

I miss the tight hugs every time we'd see each other after a long time of not. I miss the deep conversations. I miss the texts and the random calls from the people I was close with. So I guess I'm just like the Killer in some ways. I'm just like him in the sense that we both live for human contact. It's been proven. Just try walking with me and me not holding your hand. Try sitting with me and have me not cuddle up to you. If I don't have it, I'm like the little island out in the middle of the ocean like in those cartoons. That's me right now. That island. Not even great enough in size to document or put on the map. Aspiring for things at such a young age is basically pointless, but there's five year old kids out there right now, meeting the president and having brunch with the Queen, all for saying something that they'll never remember. 

Two hours later, after crying since he sent me a message, I'll have walked down, half aware, to the lobby. I will have tripped, fallen on my knees and caught myself with my face. I walked past the automatic doors and was startled by the movement. All I could hear was the faint scuffing sound of my shoes against the overly worn carpet. 

It's an ungodly hour of the day for most of the population. However, I like to run on the same cerebration of "It's five o'clock somewhere". In some city, somewhere, it's five o'clock in the afternoon. It's still light and the night is just starting. Somewhere. Instead, I'm here, in a hotel lobby in 'God Only Knows Where'. 

I walk back into my room, dazed and confused. I want to call the Brother. I need to. I need someone to tell me about their life. Give me an update on what's happening in their head. He used to be the one who I would call and talk to about pointless shit and ramble on about the things no one else cared about. Now, I feel like when I talk to him, I'm simply telling him things that he already knows. Or I'm just bringing him down with my brain byproducts. He shouldn't have to hear what he's trying to forget about. It's like deja vu for him. I can't simply tell him how my day was or what I did last night. He can probably guess. It's sad. I do just about the same thing every day, just with different emotions mingled with the events. The only new news is if my migraine goes away or if I'm in too much emotional pain to function. 

Instead of calling, I'll just lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling. The Killer is probably doing the same thing right now. And probably the Brother also. I sometimes forget that I met these people through the same circumstances. We were all so messed up to the point where at the time we couldn't fathom having anyone new come around. I still can't fathom that, myself. As a burden, I've simply accepted the fact that accepting anyone new into my life simply results in my being let down when they leave. They can't carry another person around in their head. Having me around and in your thoughts is like carry-on luggage that is filled with something as unsubstantial as crumpled up blank paper. 

They'll want to leave. Both of them. Soon, I'll be left with just myself. Like I am in this room. And that will be what will soon be the death of me.