Bipolar

And I sit her, and I wonder why do I bother living at all. There my friend lay with her eyes closed and I feel surreal. As if at any moment she might open her eyes and roll them at me like she always does but she doesn’t. And so I walk away from the coffin. I am silent; I light a cigarette; I smoke, in memory of her. Because that’s what we were good at, besides words and alcohol.

Around me, people talk. I try to be part of the conversation but it is pointless. What I want is silence. What I want is one more day with her. What I want is to hear her voice, her breathing, her heart beating. Just one more chance to make things right, for her for me for all of us.

– An excerpt from a work in progress

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