If you think I cannot be like the boy who loves the burn of his favorite whiskey
and grabs a pretty girl around the waist
twirling her and whispering in her ear
lovely lies.
And when they get back to his apartment
and fall on the bed
where he keeps a tattered notebook
and a pack of cigarettes under.
The one who has bright dead eyes
begging you to fall in
and then capturing you in their depths
and making you claw your way out,
defeated.
Even though its easier to stay,
among the sorrow there
and the hurt
and the hate
that he covers up so well
making it easier to stumble into
unknowingly into the depths
falling deeper
and deeper,
like Alice down the rabbit hole.
And you'll want to stay.
He'll watch you reach for his hand
and he'll grab the bottle instead.
You'll reach for him amongst the blankets
and he'll reach for a cigarette.
He'll watch you fall asleep
the way you breathe;
reaching a hand to play with a strand of your hair
but then pull away.
Not allowing himself
and leaving you to go walk the streets
aimlessly,
coming back at dawn
finding her there
knowing she wants to stay
and hold you
and fix you
and you will make her leave.
Because you are gone beyond repair
and her heart is full of love,
and yours is not.
You will not let her in its crushed blackness
because you wouldn't wish that on anyone.
She will leave
and he will drink
until his eyes lose focus
and his hands shake.
He will do the same thing all over again,
catch the attention of a girl with golden hair
and stormy eyes.
Torturing himself even more
because he knows she looks like her.
The one he broke.
The one he let in.
The one whose eyes now resembles his.
The one who does the exact thing he does
every night.
So do not think I cannot be like him.
Because I have learned from the best.