Friends by Insanity

I lied. 
In truth, 
she never did die. 
But to me, 
she was.  
I couldn’t pinpoint, 
exactly,
when it began. 
I couldn’t pinpoint, 
exactly, 
when she died.  
All I knew was, 
I lost a friend
somewhere along the way.  
And I lost 
myself along with it. 

She was struggling. 
I was struggling. 
But the difference was clear. 
She was going to
throw herself off buildings, 
swallow bleach, 
chuck down pills and 
drown in whiskey. 
And somewhere 
along the way, 
I became her rock. 
I had to. 

I willingly
slipped on 
a mask of 
a court jester, 
an entertainer, 
a professional one at that, 
that leaks no personal emotions 
onto the scene of the play
to win her laughter
and to ease her frown. 
And it went on and on
till I exhaust myself 
so tired and worn out,
so used to this facade, 
that,
I forget
I forgot
I forget
who I used to be. 

It became 
second nature, 
an intrinsic reflex,
to smile and charm
in the presence of people: 
blood-related or not.    
It feels like a curse
that can’t be undone,
as I watch horrified 
beneath my mask 
as a voice that is 
distinctively mine 
but not very much so, 
laughter that 
comes out natural 
but not very much so,
kill off my real words
before they roll off my tongue 
and stifle my true thoughts 
before they are sounded. 
And it haunts me so
when I finally slip off 
the mask 
at slivers of moments 
in the dead of night
and hope that 
I won’t develop  
dissociative identity disorder. 

My moods became fickle. 
My thoughts became dangerously dark. 
But there exists no outlet,
as I must become her rock. 
Her slow descent into madness
has brought me along with her. 
But in the very end, 
it doesn’t matter anymore, 
as we shall remain 
friends forever 
bonded by insanity.

The End

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