Confused States

"I don't think I am capable of having any friendships, but would you be my friend anyway"?

Steady now, don't quaver, don't get weepy. She just may take pity on you, don't fuck this up.

"Of course I will."

You thought she'd say that. She picks up stray dogs and hippies, and brings them home.

Should you say what you're thinking? No, just think how you would react to someone puking up such a mess on your floor. It's downright repulsive. This will do. Stay still. You just might make it out alive.

How the fuck do they do it? I know they have pain. So what the fuck is wrong with me, that I just can't hack it? It doesn't matter, though. You have to do it. You could break out, but they'd take another in your place, and he'd get even worse, you know that. Like it got you, when he took the out.

Fuck. This wasn't supposed to get depressing. Shit. This is me, trying not to get depressing. That's fucking depressing. O.K. Let's try this again.


I'm fond of my stray thoughts. Like homeless dogs, they keep looking for a home, for sustenance. But so many of their remains now litter my head, and I am losing my way.

Does suicide imbue one with a gravity they could not attain in life? Would they want to understand me then, would I suddenly become fascinating and have penetrating insights? They always ask about the note; and here are hundreds. I never knew who they were; I only have a vague notion. They have always been there, but out of reach. The ones that were in reach, I cannot speak of. Though it may not seem so, I am trying to get to higher ground. But I failed again. Let me try it at a run.


Breathe. There must be something light, something less ponderous, something to bring a smile. It is quick, but if I shrug off these chains I will catch it. I'm off.