never would I ever

I would never commit suicide, she said.

The cold steel ring of a gun barrel pressed at my temple. My body a hostage, about to be sacrificed by my own self. My finger on the trigger, as my conscience pleads for mercy. My mind running a million miles a minute, as if plotting it's own escape. But my body lacks the patience to allow it to happen.

I would never commit suicide.

The intended self mutilation brought on by razor blades, broken glass or poisonous ingestion.
A simple cut and it could all be over. Nothing big of course, I wouldn't want to draw attention. Keep it small, simple and sweet. Major veins can do wonders in a moment of puncture.

Sitting in a car, my car, as a hose extends from exhaust to this gaping hole in my face that I can't seem to manage to keep shut (or perhaps, never manage to open at the right time... I suppose it depends how you look at it). Fumes fleeing from the confines of my vehicle, making home in the depths of my lungs as I'd inhale deeply, willingly.

I would never commit suicide.
I promise I would never commit suicide.

* * * * *

She drove, for a while. Coming home now, she turns the music off in her car and listens to passing traffic on an unseasonably warm March evening. The crescendo of cars approaching her and in a blink, flying by, are nothing more than floating taillights, reflecting as shimmering dust beneath tires on the wet concrete. She'll talk to herself, because she knows she'll listen.

Sometimes she pretends she's someone she's not - someone more interesting, or someone smarter. She'll write her own monologue as she steadily drives, and imagine being in drama class all over again. Why couldn't she have this emotion when she was being graded? To be honest, I'm sure if she could act this well in highschool, she'd have gotten herself out of a lot of shit. Instant tears? Check. Emotional breakdown? Check.

She's no actress.
Just a good liar.

But nobody would really know, because nobody can really tell.
(isn't that what makes her so good?)

She has one friend. Well, no, that's a lie. She's got a few. But one friend she feels is real; is genuinely interested in her life. The others are her friends because they feel she's interested in their lives.

She's a good liar.

Dare I preach a word of my life - a woah of mine or a fear I have. Nobody would stop me, but nobody really cares. There are those who tell you they want to hear all about it, but pft. They want to hear about it for about a minute and a half before they instantly regret their decision to hear you out. Suddenly, they've realized this has nothing to do with them... and therefore, they could no longer give a fuck.

I'll tell you something, though, of all the apparent friends I have, I know there is one who truly loves and cares. Not to say my mom doesn't love and care about me, of course. But I'm talking friends that I worked at getting. Friends in which I spent countless hours listening to their bitching, whining and moaning about that girl in 11th grade who was Miss Prima Donna at the time, but now works the streets in leather clad that barely covers enough of the stretch marks to be considered sexy. About the boys that broke their hearts by saying they would love them forever, but then up and decide theres something better out there -- and just cut communication. About the way they're never good enough for their parents, or they're job is so hard, or that they've been dieting for 19 months and have only lost 29 lbs.

Perhaps, maybe, put down the Snickers bar and go for a run.

Listen, I know my friends inside and out. They are my friends because I encourage it. I highly doubt things would be the same if I never called them up and said 'Hey, Friday Night. You, Me and about 39 other people are going out.'

39 might be slightly exaggerated.. I'm not that popular.

You know why they're my friends? Because they know I'm thinking about them. And they love it. I call them, I make plans, I work at these relationships more than any of you ever would. And you're my friends because I've always been in touch, I've always maintained the open lines of communication, and have always been the one to ask "How'd that interview go?" or "How was your Brother's Birthday party?"
Because I take interest,
because I show that I care.
Because I come across as having some sort of need to hear all about their lives
without having to say a word about mine.

Because I have a skill when it comes to talking to people
and having them open up for me.
I have a knack for getting people to maintain conversation
and appear to be interested in holding onto it.
Because I'm so curious about their lives
their loves
their losses.

I 'care' about them because I one day need an excuse to throw back at them when they don't have the time to talk to me,
or help me.
or be there when i need to cry

I care about them, I truly do.
And because I care, I am a good friend.

I'm also a good liar.

* * * * *

She parks her car on a familiar driveway and sits in the dark, the silence.
Thinking why she couldn't be this good when it mattered.
Wondering who she could confide in.. talk to when she really just wants to talk.

She doesn't want coffee.
She doesn't want to meet for a drink.
She doesn't want to go to the bar, go meet up with your friends or rush through a lunch break to talk on the phone.

Sometimes she just wants to talk. To feel like someone genuinely cares.

She has one friend who does that, and that friend knows who she is.

But for the rest of them,
at least throw me a bone.

at least fake it.