Another Saturday night
spent breaking up bar fights,
and fixing things
that have nothing to do with me.
I wonder at how we got here.
These sleepless nights are killing me,
dreaming of your broken bottle sins.
I know there was a beginning,
but I can’t see the end.
I feel your dependence like a weight
stacked high with all of your tonics,
sour beer, your wine, your gin.
God, I am just so tired,
I feel broken, bent, used
and used again.
I can’t stand it when you call me “friend”
like I was something more to you
than a person to vent to.
I’ve always been the person you went to
because I know you better than the floor
you see more and more of everyday
passed out over like a dead man.
You wish you were a dead man.
I almost do, too.
At least that way I wouldn’t have to listen,
listen to you, your life,
everything I hate about you.
But I won’t say a word.
I’ll just pick up your world, your bottle
and all the pieces of pretentious bravado
you dropped when you walked
through that front door.
I hate my job, but I hate you more.