Questions . . .

Everybody’s got em. Here’s mine. Why did I end up here? What’s next? Did she ever truly love me enough not to leave me like this? Why do I worry when she nice to me? Why am I always right to worry? What happens when I stop caring? Why have only 2 friends been there checking on me and even bothering to try and help me? Where is my help and why the fuck is it taking so long to come? Why do I feel like Garth, much too young to feel this damned old? Why do I ways feel alone? Am I meant to be?

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One thought on “Questions . . .

  1. I love you. I wish I could be there to hold your hand right now. I’d give you all sort of platitudes, but we both know how reality actually works. I think you’re flexible enough to weather this. You’re always welcome to run away to here. We can figure out the dog situation.

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