my self-destruction

it was a dull day at lunch with the chatter buzzing lethargically around us when you saw me working on one of my poems. you raised your eyebrows and asked, “can i see?”

so i showed it to you, and you looked at it and said it was good.

that was the first time i showed you my poetry.

the next time, you said nothing.

later when i chose black over orange, you joked i was turning as emo and depressed as my poetry, and i laughed along.

the truth is, emo and depressed words are only written by people who actually feel that way in the first place, no matter if they shrug it off as nothing. sometimes they just pretend they’re fine, that’s all.

one time i wrote a poem about you. it was about the sunshine in your essence, such a wonderful contrast against my darkness.

to this day i can’t remember whether or not you ever saw it. i don’t want to ask because then i’d have to show it to you, and for some reason i don’t want that.

i remember when i mentioned that i normally stayed up until eleven at night. you were so shocked, i added, “that’s when i get all the good ideas,” as if writing explains everything.
so you asked me when i usually woke up, and you did the math. “christie, seven hours? you need eight to ten hours of sleep!”

your soft hand was weighing on my shoulder as i sat, silent, motionless. your pretty blue eyes were speckled with concern, and underneath your voice i could hear the echo of your thoughts. you’re destroying yourself.

i almost said nothing, but instead, i told you i valued my writing more than my sleep. it sounded like an excuse, and you sighed and gave up on me.

i guess it was an excuse, really. anything’s easier than admitting to you it doesn’t matter that i’m destroying myself. i’d rather make excuses than tell you i’m too far-gone to care.