All of the White Men Who Ever Tried to Help Me

It felt like a lover's tryst, where I was stolen away, for the sole purpose of the pertinence of me being both praised, and respected. Nothing said sincerity, and longevity quite like a secret your faces don't quite show en passing. During the discussion, I was asked two questions that made my life worth living, although intrusive and slightly offensive, I would hold onto these words in the darkest of nights. The first inquiry was to find out if I still "wanted to be here, although all of my friends have left me, and are at home", to which I simply replied "yes". The second, not so much a question, but a proposition quickly turned promise, was payment in every form, aside from an increment on the number of my weekly pay stub. Being told that they did not intend to pry, engulfed me in a momentary feeling that I was worth 'prying', that is to say, worth anything.

("He left you, didn't he?" A question I discovered would more truthfully be answered with a yes, than a no. I spoke, "It's fine", which is obviously a phrase I only use when it is not, or when I am crying in someone's face.) The door swung shut, and seconds later I had collapsed in the nearby, and only chair. I cried desperately, with my left hand covering my mouth and lower half of my face. I felt precisely like Kiera Knightly, meaning dramatic, and not beautiful. I proudly basked in the idea of crying at my own feelings; being the character in the movie, not crying for myself through the character in a movie. I recovered only two hours later, and got in the shower.

By the time the water was hitting me, I had come to culmination that I would let my actions run their course. Simply put, I did not have to dismantle these relationships single-handedly, arduously; time would do it for me. Natural distance would occur, and my sensation of control could remain totally and completely in tact, having the knowledge beforehand.

I would mistake loneliness for solitude, again, fall asleep late and sugar-bellied. A nightly phone conversation would suffice, tiding me over until the next, in a string of nearly-enoughs. Everyone is right about one thing, which is there is no one here, and the hangers hang still in the barren closet, I can't decide anything, but to tell you what I am feeling, you don't respond anyway.