You.
I know you more than you believe I do, I’m afraid, so what you say has already been affirmed or denied by what I know about you.
I can feel that you’re hurting, but you won’t tell me what’s really going on, I’m not sure if giving up is an option that’s not worth the risk.
I’m afraid that you might hurt yourself, or worse. Is that such a bad thing? You don’t talk, you don’t eat, you don’t cry, you don’t bathe, you don’t think. You’ve nearly convinced me that you’re an addict of some sort, and it scares me.
I talk to you nearly everyday for the next few months to chill you out after rehabs, after your second and third chances, but you relapse severely again and again like you don’t want to quit. I cut you off and you cut your wrists. How can you resist? You resist me, the helper of the haul to you, you block me off as if I’m not wanted. But regardless, I’m here, like it or not.
I love you enough to care. You disappear for days and come back higher than the skyscrapers that I believe you imagine about. But when you come down hard into my arms you find the sensibility to cry at yourself. But it could be for my sake only, but it’s not working, I’m losing sleep over you, your health deteriorating, you’re stealing from me like I’m the enemy, but I’m still the only pillar that your castle has to stand on, and regardless of how hard you push, the weight of my position keeps me glued to you so that you don’t fall any harder.
But you won’t listen to me anymore, you’ve basically fired me from your life, who am I to complain, but then, who am I to comply? I know you want it, but you need me, and so all I can honestly do is pray that you don’t overdose on your pride or anything else long enough to get help…
I’m too late, they’ve found you once more, bruised, beaten and stuck in the clouds of your mind, laughing at nothing and speaking gibberish that even you probably can’t understand. Dying, beaten, hurting, needing, wanting, having. I should’ve been there with you, holding your hand making sure that the harm didn’t go to you. But they couldn’t give you back to me, they couldn’t help you out of the stupor that you had stooped to. And I couldn’t help either. It was time to let you go, permanently, I’m afraid. Why did you have to go? Why did you have to give into the desire for it? You knew it would only hurt you, why did you do it to yourself, to me?
The thunder claps in my ear as I cry at the grave of the loved one I used to know. Rains pour on me, winds rage, emotions flair. You’ve been in the ground for under two days and I already miss you. I miss everything about you… even your habit. I know what it does, but you’re gone, what do I have to lose?

My attitude has changed, my paradigm of the world has been tainted with the taste of sorrow and the funk of death. I become a phantom in skin, the angel of demons or the demon of angels, regardless, I feel alone and unwanted. And thus I follow you once more, thinking of you with syringes around me, life ebbing and waning, eyes shutting but slowly opening revealing an area of the city that I had never traveled to, a place in my domain that was foreign. I wanted to leave, but go where? And thus, with the face of you in my view and the thought of your voice in my ears, I slip down the road less traveled, following your footsteps once more.
Love lost, heart faded, alone in his own creation. The god has fallen, the wrong path has been taken…