Another broken heart

I hadn't been able to get hold of him. He hadn't been answering the phone.
Well, he did today.

His ex girlfriend- the mother of his child- overdosed two nights ago. Intentionally. Because of me. No she didn't die. I almost feel sorry about that, I'm so sick with anger.
She has been threatening to kill me, to slit my throat.
My boyfriend had been staying every night with her, while I have been away, trying to keep her alive, trying to protect his little daughter from her crazed rants and rage. Jealousy is a fucked up thing- and when mixed with true insanity, lethal.

Because of this... because of her, we have to break up, he says, his voice's flatness cut with sobs. He thinks he's saving me, and his daughter. He's trying to be honourable. He's sacrificing me.
How can someone say they WANT to be with you but they CAN'T? How can they say they wish they could spend their life with you, but they CAN'T? Just say you don't love me any more, say that and I can understand.

Now I don't know what I feel. Lost maybe.

Wanting arms around me, so sad any arms would do. Someone to tell me everything will be okay. Someone to love me.
I'm afraid I'm addicted to love.
Did I ever feel anything real for him, or was it all made up?
In love with love.
Homeless now, we were supposed to move in together when I got back. My life is upside down.
Drugs don't make me happy any more.
But still, that's all that I can think of to do, to wipe the pain away.
I just hope they're enough.

despair

despair and more and more I want to disappear

Lost in space

All day I've felt like some great ice-cream scoop has come along and scooped my heart out. It was muggy, but now the rain is beating my washing on the line and there's thunder in the sky near by. I have nothing to say that isn't a disapointment. Chain smoking cigarettes that leave my lips dry but comfort me, a lung-hug, they stop my hands shaking a bit. I'm sorry. I wish I could write you a heroine. My hair and t-shirt are wet from the argument we had outside as the sky split open. Me yelling at him not to go. I was afraid to be alone. Afraid of myself. Feeling dark and full of loathing for the girl who is me. I'm not good at asking for help, even worse at begging. But I did, looking at the cracks on the pavement, the small brown loquats the birds had ravaged, squashed beneath my toes. The space between us filled with rain. I looked up into his face but it was closed, and his eyes were impatient. No understanding. Frustrated, he tried to reassure me that he loved me. IT'S NOT THAT YOU FUCKHEAD, I KNOW YOU LOVE ME, I'M JUST AFRAID OF DEATH TODAY AND IT'S CALLING MY NAME AND I NEED SOMEONE TO PROTECT ME FROM THE SHADOWS. But it doesn't make sense, even to me, why should it make sense to him?

So you know

Every morning we pull into the same carpark. stub out our ciggys on the same patch of concrete wall below the no-smoking sign, and push open the heavy doors to the detox clinic. Each day I turn the same water-cooler's plastic lever, foolishly hopeful. Empty. Get swept to a small room through corridors of clutter by a fashion struck young nurse with a nervous too-easy smile and a soft voice. There are three nurses and they are all this way. We sit hands in lap as the opiates dissolve under our tongues. Yes, it's anther detox.

Another fucking detox.

Typing those words something pangs.

Round and round on the merry-go-round. Failure a pit-stop I can't seem to avoid. In fact, I've almost come to expect it, and accept it, with a sickly relief.

Lets keep our minds away from that. Driving home we know where we will stop, heads bowed counting our coins together, linked in routine, nothing needs to be said anymore. It used to be this way with morphine. Now bourbon and colas in the closest park, staring at the blue sky through the leaves.

At some point the day shifts out of focus and another begins.