Why You Mustn’t Let ISR Die

ISR-yes you went to school with him- is a backstabber and a massive coward. And my hatred for him is so dense and deep, that past-me would have destroyed all semblance of societal respect he ever had. You’re burdened with his life, charged to- preserve him, conserve him and guard him. Who else would? 

You’re not a saint-never were, but you like to believe that you could be: good. Till yesterday, you were everything you chose to be and acted however you wished. And then- responsibility a foot tall is shoved up your nose, it is acid: vaporizing and burning your throat, it numbs your mind and paralyzes you, so when you, nerves shaken, try to run hellbound, it leeches itself to you- forever stuck. You tell yourself, crudely honest, yes I hate him but I don’t want him dead right? Then go on, try and save him.

                                                      You’re taken back when he apologizes, lies lies lies slither inside, flashbacks flash tilted in time, whirlpooled back to when his manic girlfriend called him ‘mine’, and believed the stories over dinnertime, of him, hanging out with them, never even trying to save the both of you. Resounding slaps clap by when you say, “I cut myself.” That time, lost in your history, you remember, in the cafeteria: him being glorified for the jagged lines running like crooked rivulets along his thin arms, you remember him smiling when the next day, more of his fans try it out. Stupid teenage notions. He’s alone, lonelier than ever, SOSing you, so you tell yourself to accept this leech called responsibility; to be the good actor you are on the stage lies lies lies slither inside. You say with the straightest face you can manage, “I am here for you.”