confession i am an open book—and he does heroin my juvenile secrets are pale compared to his we are sitting backwards on the couch, playing a game of confession as if we are in the 8th grade
and instead, i wish we were playing spin the bottle. this is a confession i have never made: we have matching scars on the back of our hands— but mine is from an accident in grade school and his, self-inflicted, warranted a 72-hour hospital stay— there’s something to be said about one of us being brave
today of all days, i wish i could say that i was surprised. how can i sit in the waiting room like this? especially when the waiting room is actually just my stairwell and no one is coming to save me and no one was there to save him despite this, I still can’t grasp the finality of what has happened
dear god, please tell me this is a fucking prank. in an instant i know what the phrase “deafening silence” means it is the hollow ring on the other side of the phone when the worst day of my life has fallen on a holiday weekend and everyone is too busy to pick up
i want to scream, but i can’t even cry. 9
