Eat My Heart Out

I didn't stay up drawing, but I did stay up. Well, technically, I'm not up. I'm lying down. I'm down.

I keep stroking the empty space in front of me. I keep staring at the empty, extra pillow.

I'm wide awake and lonely.

I miss his small frame. I miss holding him in my arms and protecting him. I miss the warmth he gave me, both inside and out.

Why did he have to fuck up like that? Why did he have to fall back into his old habits, forcing me to relapse too? Why did he have to be so selfish?

I didn't even say anything bad this time. Last time, it was because I'd called him fat, but I haven't done that this time. I've done nothing to tick him off.

Maybe it's not me. Maybe it's some jocks at school calling him fat. Or maybe a teacher. But why does he care about that? He shouldn't be listening to strangers – he should listen to me!

I'm the one who's helped him! I helped him see who he was and helped him realize how good he could have it. I was the one who saved him! And this is how he chooses to show his gratitude? Forcing me back into drinking?

How could he do this to me?

I stroke my thumb over my black, empty sheet. I close my eyes and ignore my itching cheeks and burning eyes.

He's the one to blame for all this.

I get out of bed lazily. My body feels ten times heavier than usual as I struggle to get to my feet. I stumble over to my desk, tripping over nothing and slamming into my desk chair. I hang onto it for dear life – which isn't very much, seeing as it's on wheels – and lean down to open the bottom drawer. I let my hand dangle back and forth, trying to make a choice – gin or liquor? Pine trees or banana? Orange peel or banana?

I grab the banana. I feel fruity. I'm gay; I'm allowed.

I throw myself onto my bed and hug the bottle. It's just like hugging Frank. The bottle is cold. It's thin. It's barely there, and yet; it gives me such a feeling of warmth and safety.

I kiss the cap, before I unscrew it and take a swig.

I smile.