PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Do you remember that cold night we shared in your bedroom. It was dark, but even in my memories I can still make out the old, moldy, yellow squares of the rug on the floor. I remember you still being excited by the sunset. You pulled me out of bed by my wrist, and dragged me to the windowsill. I laughed at your happiness. I didn’t mean to make you sad. I opened the window. It was hard, because the window had been painted shut before you moved in. I didn’t show it though, because to you I was a hero. Something I’m not. We sat there. Out the window. It was the first time you let me hold your hand. I remember seeing the blue veins on your arm. You saw the track marks on mine.

                For some reason, you weren’t angry. You didn’t show it at the least. I guess I had expected you to hit me. Tell me I was stupid. Tell me I was wrong. All you said was that you somehow found respect for me. You assumed I had quit. You assumed I didn’t want more. I wanted to tell you the truth. I wasn’t the type to lie. I didn’t though. Because I knew if you were angry. If I couldn’t talk to you anymore. I would be in the cold. Standing at deaths door.

                What I didn’t know is you kept a box under your bed. In that old wooden box, with creaky hinges; you kept a needle. A dimebag or two, and I rubber band. I didn’t know that seeing my arm would cause you to relapse.

I didn’t know that after I left, and got in my car. You were going to tie yourself off. Stick a needle in your arm.

I didn’t know that in some fucked of way, I was the reason you’re gone.

You didn’t know, that in some fucked up way, are the reason I’m about to be gone.