I want you dead... Dad.I don't want their sympathy. It doesn't bother me if he's terminal. Sometimes I'll tell them I want him to die just to wipe that stupid expression off their face. Only later, when alone and within the company of a blade, do I spin the snapshot album of memories through my mind and allow them to reassure me.More Like This
Another bad day. More negative thoughts. I don't think I care anymore. Just another section of wasted time spent time witnessing my father's battle with the unreachable and melancholic demons of sobriety and consciousness. That line sounds a lot nicer than it feels. As I write my fingertips are touching broken glass, my mind hurts. And I'm hungry.
A friend asked me today 'hey, you ok?' When am I ever?
I'm sure it's harder to be him. The only times I think of my own death are when I'm planning. He has the all-consuming thought of his illusive and unclear demise. It would be so much easier if we knew more about it, but he refuses the possibility of more knowledge: too afraid that the