Well, I’m glad you’re not dead.
I just have a mental health issue. I imagine your death in so many ways. It’s not that I want you dead, It’s just that my fear takes over. Every minute a different And more horrific Way that you died. I see it. Car accident. Road Rage. A drunk driver hits you. You are the drunk driver. You found your boy, He’s the one that crashed and you found his car Or came upon the police scene. Now he’s also lying there, dead. You’re screaming in agony, Because now I killed him too. I imagine how the officers pulled up, then told you. I wonder what their response time will be And how long it takes them to find me. To tell me you’re dead. But then you walk in. Like nothing happened. Usually you were out drinking and chose not to call. Because you knew I’d be annoyed. But sometimes it’s because you washed your phone. But you still could have called when you left work. It would have been nice to know you weren’t dead. For that hour That I imagined it.
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My mind wandersI write whatever I'm thinking in no particular order Archives
July 2023
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