The WatcherMature


I want to live life abundantly but God never told me that I would have to suffer with many of my friends dying both figuratively and literally.  God never told me that I would help people, only for them to take a razor and cut themselves open like taped boxes at Christmas time, searching though the exposed skin and thought projected rotting guts, for love.


God never told me that I would sit here, in this old hand me down office chair that my father kept in his office supply store, one armrest staying in place, the other leaving, while I wrote away my pain to you, dear reader.


God never told me that I would be in a career I didn’t want, to do what everybody else probably has done already.  All I’ve wanted to do is sleep on a couch in a rundown shack, with you, friend.  God never told me that I would be writing with a person whose works are infinitely more interesting than my own; at her writings I stare transfixed.  God never told me I’d have dreams of my future, love, admiration, friends and even fans.


He told me, to watch.


So I have been sitting and watching, and praying and hoping, and seeing friends pop up, telling me this works, a crazy idea I almost didn’t allow.  I’ve tried forgetting the image that I saw.


I saw a friend’s blood flow from her breast, glaring at me.  The same breast owned by the friend I saved from a Pez dispenser full of Xanax.  I feel broken, as if I failed her, as if I could have done something to stop this ripping of the soul that came with the picture as if a hidden Christmas present.


I do as He told me.  I watch.


I watch the rumors multiply.  She doesn’t need help, or so her brother states, and spontaneously I want to respond, because I felt as though I knew her better.  He, Father, tells me to wait


"Watch."  I do as He told me, I watch.


She went as she wanted to go.


This thought terrifies me in its simplicity.  I write to music and the music said exactly that line.  Maybe it’s true, even though my mind says no.


It is how she wanted to go.  Suddenly, and with flair! Paint, her own manufactured inner pain paint, on the tile floor, next to a brand logo hoodie sweatshirt that I don't know the name of.  The blood is like drips of cherry juice, sitting there, waiting.  It hits me, when I observe the photo of her cut breast.


She wanted to look as ugly as her ex-boyfriends made her feel on the inside.


There was nothing said to make me think this, but I know it, I do.


Maybe it really is how she wanted to go.


That way, she’d live forever.

The End

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