The Burial of Bakura
I can barely see. My eyes are so swollen everything looks fuzzy. Any closer and I’ll crash into the screen. I must have taken ten Ibuprofen. Mellowyel called so I threw them up or at least tried to. Either way, most of it came up. I doubt whatever’s left is lethal.
I hate that you can never go back. Things always change don’t they? Life is perfect. It’s flawed but it’s perfect, and then something goes and changes on you, and then you can never go back.
I wish I could be five again and be five forever. I wish I had never met him, never spoken to him, never fallen in love with him. I wish I had never taken that job. If I hadn’t I would never have met him, and my life would have carried on, imperfect as it was, but in blissful oblivion of him. I would have left and I wouldn’t have cried on the plane because I was leaving him. My eighteenth birthday would have come and it wouldn’t have ended in tears because he stood me up. My nineteenth birthday would have come and it wouldn’t have ended in tears because he never called. My twentieth birthday would have come and I wouldn’t have felt hurt because again, he didn’t call.
I would have been happy. Or I might have been crying over someone else.
There are so many things I wish could happen. And almost all of them have to do with him.
He’s not perfect, neither am I.
But the thing is, I love his imperfections. To me, they make him beautiful.
I tried so hard to be this person. To be this person that he could be proud of. But I think he was ashamed of me. I think I embarrassed him. I don’t know. Whatever.
I need a drink.
All these memories are tumbling through my head. I need to make them stop. I guess if I can’t sleep I’ll just take more IB. Why the fuck do I blog anyway? This isn’t helping. It worked before. Why isn’t it working now????
I don’t want to think.
Let me tell you another secret. I’m a fucking drug addict. My favourite poison is called Bakura, and his other name is Never.
Do you know why I call him Never??
There’s a formula you see. It’s a formula that helps me stay alive. Or at least it stops me from OD’ing.
Never more than a pinch at a time.
Never more than once a day.
Never more than two days in a row.
Any more than that, and I’ll fucking lose it. That’s all very well and good when the drugs keep coming, but what happens when you run out?
I just fucking ran out. Bakura’s getting married to some brain-dead whore and he just corked my bottle of Never shut. Like fucking permanently shut.
Dear Bakura, please die. Because that way, I can get my shit together. Because that way I can fucking dance on your grave and deal.
I can’t do this. I need something to make me sleep.
Aren’t you, my little beast-whore, cute?