WAKEUP

My fingers bleed from scratching the walls in the middle of the night. I have woken up, screaming, in pain. I look at my fingertips and suck the blood off of them.

It is 5:24 in the morning. I watch the cigarette smoke of my last cigarette dissolve in the air of my apartment that once must have been untainted and innocent.
I take a deep breath and inhale the toxic smoke, mixed with the hot, humid damp of the cup of green tea that is in front of me.

It is 5:25 in the morning. Maybe I should sleep.
Is this what it has come to be? Screaming nightmares, bleeding fingertips, alcohol, drugs, sex, shit, fuck, stop.

People will always come and people will always leave. I have never left anyone; I guess I was too scared to. I've always stuck around, waiting for people to leave me, waiting to be left. Alone. I realise now that, all this time, I've carefully been creating my own private hell. So this time, I left. But you know what? It doesn't feel any better.

Screaming nightmares, bleeding fingertips, depression, rape, violence, alcohol, depression, fingertips, medication, drugs, parks, shit, fuck, FUCK, stop.

I fell from one hell, one nightmare, right into another.
Maybe I should sleep. The ashed head of my cigarette has given up on me and is now lying on the table. I stare at it.
I do not notice how much time passes. It might be 2 minutes, it might be 3. It might be a century, or maybe one and a half. Who knows?
The thing is, I can't sleep. Not until I've figured out which is the real hell, the real nightmare. You know, living and dreaming are pretty much the same thing, for one the stakes are just a little higher. The fun part is,- or well, 'fun'- The interesting part is figuring out which one is real.
Why did I leave you? You never asked me to. Maybe I should sleep.

Yes, I should sleep. I will, in fact, get some sleep tonight.
And as I lay my pen down, because my fucking fingertips have started bleeding again, I decide that tomorrow...

Tomorrow I will ask you to leave me.


For the last time.