Sleep No More

(I must warn you, this story is very freaking long. I thought about cutting up into three seperate acts,but I think keeping it continious substains the flow.)

There is only one true philosophical problem, and that is suicide. –Albert Camus

Think about your own life. Think about how you’re fucked up. What would you change? I shot myself. I shot myself in the heart because love don’t love nobody. At least I was aiming for the heart. At the time, I thought it would be romantic. It wasn’t. It was horrific. It was loud. Gunfire loud. I took a pillow like they do in the movies to muffle the sound but it didn’t silence. I pulled the trigger. I didn’t even feel the bullet enter my body. I just felt wet afterwards. Very wet.

I wasn’t trying to kill myself. It was so damn complicated. I decided that I needed a vacation. I wanted to see if I was happy. I wanted to see if god would let me die. I know how its sounds, crazy. We are all just freaks, torn souls, flowers pulled from their roots trying to do the impossible, survive without water. Think about your own life. Think about how you’re fucked up. What would you change?

I guess the first question, why did I pack the gun if I didn’t plan to kill myself. I only remember needing a drink. It all seemed so anti-climatic. I went straight to the Crazy Chicken liquor extravaganza. I was craving Vodka. In the parking lot, I mixed the orange juice and Absolut in my car as I scanned my surroundings carefully to see if anyone was watching. I felt nervous. My mind was trying to warn me of something, but I couldn’t hear over the tantrum screaming of my demons wanting to rampage. The first sip was instantaneous. The vodka separated from the orange juice and crashed on my tongue. It was destructively orgasmic. I felt the earthquake throughout my body. The convolution was a jailbreak-- the deranged prisoner free as hotness sprinted down my throat leaving tracks of fire. The second sip wasn’t as dramatic, more supportive, but defiantly not the star. The more I drank, the more I was reminded of that hate. I hate everything. I got old. Too many things change. I didn’t like change. I remember scoring the bag of Tina. I remember getting the hotel. I remember getting high and drinking. I remember pulling out the gun. I remember the trigger. I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I was just testing God to see if he would let me die. I know how it sounds. Think about your own life. Think about how you’re fucked up. What would you change?

Broken hearts break razor-sharp. Unfinished hearts haunt like ghosts who didn’t die peacefully. Even as I lay dying, my heart wouldn’t let him go. Because, the second I jumped off his cliff, I wanted to live. My last thought was of him. I saw him bathing in a river of light. I was there with him. He told me to put my head underneath the light, to let it drown me. I tried to explain to him that if I put my head under the pool of light I would die. He said to trust him. So I did it. I let myself drown. I pulled the trigger. I didn’t die.
******************
The beginning. I wasn’t looking for love, anything but love. Aging parti Boys like me: heartbreakers, living fast to die young, conflicted, self-destructing, soulless --were to have and not to hold. Boys like me were outside the radar. The world had forgotten about boys like me. Boys like me were doomed.

So when I met him in that place, he was supposed to be just a fuck. I wasn’t looking for love. And they say when your life is about to change, it’s nothing special, that day was nothing special. I arrived at the bookstore, paid my five dollars for a fist full of coins for the video booths. I hardly ever used those coins. If I wanted to just watch porn, I would’ve stayed home. I wanted sweaty flesh. Bookstores were all the same. I loved the hunt. I loved the second the bored clerk pushed the button to let me in the back, into the darkness, how I would tighten my baseball cap on my head and pull it down on my eyes. That buzzing sound separated the worlds. On the outside I was somebody’s brother, son, co-worker or even father. But on the inside, I was nothing but a hard dick, a sloppy hole, a steamy mouth or gentle sticky hand. On the outside, I was a uniform but on the inside I was just naked. On the inside, behind those dark walls, I was only my waistline, my youth, masculinity and eagerness to please. The second I was behind the door, on the inside, I became a predator or prey. It was on the inside that I felt the safest, maybe because I didn’t have to be anything but a body. Maybe because I knew the hunt. I didn’t have to be a personality, just flesh. I didn’t have to be happy. I didn’t have to be nothing. On the inside, I’d immediately go the bathroom and do a hit of Tina. I’d then sip from my one liter coke bottle filled with rum and coke. I’d sniff my poppers to remind me of my aching lust. I’d lube up my hole just in case. I’d avoid the mirror.

The hunt was always the same. It was to appear available but not desperate. I hadn’t been on the inside for more than five minutes when I saw him. He was standing against a wall. He had his hood on his head but raised his shirt when I walked by to reveal his flat stomach. I circled him three times before he spoke.
Sup with you.
Nothing.
You trying to get into something?
Basically.
So what's up?
Not much.
You come here often?
Does it matter?
What’s in that coke bottle?
Holy water.
You trying to get fucked up?
I’m already fucked up
It seemed like a stupid question. I didn’t pay attention to his face. I kept my eyes on his stomach, looking for a rise in his red sweatpants. I didn’t like talk. I found that talking in that place confused people.
I want to fuck.
You have to take your clothes off first.
You want to come to my crib?
And why would I do that, when I'm already here?
What is your name?
My name is Sean.
You didn’t ask me my name.
I don’t care. And what if I want to fuck you?
I don't get fucked.
Everybody gets fucked one way or the other. Besides, we're already here.
I don't just be fucking anywhere.
And why did you come here?
I don't know.
You live in DC?
I live in Maryland
Should've guessed.
Where do you live?
Close.
We could go to your crib.
My place is crowded.
I started to walk away. He already had asked one too many questions. He didn’t need to know about my life. Yet, I stayed even when I noticed that I was being cruised by another guy who grabbed his dick so that I could see its print. He was an older guy, a little heavy, not the type I’d immediately give my time, more the desperate type when I couldn’t find anything else, so I decided to entertain my new prey.
What does that mean?
It means I don't live alone.
And?
And you look threatening, with that whole young black male thug channel five news look.
Looks can be deceiving.
I didn’t say I didn’t like it.
You're not afraid of me?
Should I be?
I ain't going to do shit to you.
I was hoping we do something.
I don't usually do this.
Do what?
Get down like this.
He stared to bore me. I hated the down low type that hyper masculinity bathed in pain and secrecy that killed souls.
I'm not going home with you. We fuck here or we don't fuck at all.
I ain’t going to do nothing to you.
Now you begging.
I ain't begging.
You're ruining my buzz.
Why you tripping?
What are you promising?
You won't be disappointed.
Heard it all before.
I'm gonna go.
He seemed nervous. I thought to myself maybe it was his first time, that he was a bookstore virgin. He didn’t understand the rules.
Take a sip of this.
Damn that shit is straight liquor.
It has rum in it. .
And you're drinking like its water.
You smoke weed?
You trying to get me fucked up?
I'm just trying to get you to relax.
You got condoms?
And lube, so relax.
Do you always get this fucked up?
Yeah.
Maybe you should think about slowing down.
No.

We found a booth and locked the door. The rule was only one occupant per booth but no one ever followed that rule. I really didn’t like bookstores because there was no privacy. Strangers had driven holes in the walls and doors to peak and steal glimpses of what they failed to get. I preferred bathhouses. That place was a dump, might as well been fucking in a dumpster. Sober, it was even more depressing that’s why I had to get fucked it. The floors were always sticky with spilled liquor, used condoms, spit and men abortions. The booths were gutted shack houses, barely hanging onto their hinges. But it was dark and I guessed that’s what black men who hid their faces and eyes with baseball caps or hoods wanted. It was also cheap, didn’t cost more than a fast meal. They were other places, better places, but the city was DC, and the other places were white, and for some reason Black men liked the darker and trashier back alleys. Black men, the trendy down low, who left their girlfriends and wives at home to read the latest E. Lynn Harris book. Nothing about that place or life was romantic. Just desperate. In the winter, in that place, they sometimes didn’t even turn on the heat. The owner was of course some white fat fag who didn’t care about niggas. Niggas took over the place sometime in the early nineties, instead of shutting it down, he raised the price. That place took money from mostly black hands or white men looking for the big black dick and treated everyone like shit. The clerks were always rude, never had time, acted like they were better because they were on the outside. Ironically, that place, in their advertisements were the typical chiseled white men in white jockstraps, but in reality that place was filled with black faces, timberlands, chronic, nappy hair and musky funk. That place didn’t respect us, knew that too many of us were just looking to release shame. They treated us like niggas who were fags. But I guess that’s what we wanted, to be invisible, voiceless, not cause any trouble or bring attention to ourselves. That was the life that some black gay men barely owned. That was the life that I barely owned like renting furniture three times its price cuz I had bad credit.

We started slowly. I pulled out a small bottle of lube from my pocket and wet my black hole again. I let him put his cold hands on my stomach. He unzipped and let his frustration breath. I liked for a man to undress me after he has undressed. I liked to see and feel his solid erection rubbing against me unapologetically. I liked to see the physical manifestation of how much he wanted me. And from the size of his raging bull in his red jogging pants, he wanted me like the thirsty dreamed of water. He let his pants fall to his ankles. He was an eager nine inches. High and feeling invincible, I just watched him. There’s something very virginal yet corrupt when I am fully clothed and the other was naked. I let him take off my shirt first. I whispered in his ear to go slow, because the worse part of me was romantic and loved the production and illusion of intimacy. He leisurely slid my shirt over my head, temporarily arresting me in darkness. The smell of my own musk and citrus cologne passing my nose served as a quick aphrodisiac. I was now shirtless. He pressed his warm body against mine. He kissed my neck, and then slid down to my nipples. My nipples had always been the most sensitive part of my body. He played with them like a little kid with his favorite toy. I let myself relax. He ran his hand over my crotch and then grab for my hand to hold his. It was almost romantic. He unbuttoned my pants and slowly slid the zipper down. I felt the vibrations of every ridge. Just like him, I wasn’t wearing any underwear. I arched my back inwardly so that he could place those cold masculine hands on my waist. He let my jeans fall to my knees. I felt primal. I was ready for him to drown me with his wicked intentions. Tongues and hands became drunk with heat and search for even hotter hidden places. My dark sexy body twisted and moaned. He directed my body to bend over. His frisky curious tongue devoured my sensitive manhole with intense unapologetic aggression. I found myself digging into the dingy wall with my stumpy nails, feeling the pendulum swing of heat. I was free. I wanted him to fuck me. I was begging for him to fuck me. Instead, he decided to flip the script on me and flipped me over like a rag doll. He positioned my body so that he towered over me. The look in his sultry eyes told me that he wanted to feel the moisture of my steamy rum and coke mouth on his throbbing precumming dick. I obeyed. My mouth was salivating, dripping with spit, as I sucked him. He was so hard. I loved it. I let him drive his dick into the back of my throat. Spit overflowed, slippery and wet, my mouth hot and inviting, slow than fast than slow again. I could feel him want to give in, because his knees were weakening and the storm in his eyes had silenced for rain. But we weren’t finished. He casually pulled himself out of my salivating mouth. I stood up, a little dizzy, feeling salacious with adrenaline and ready to give my body to him to do with as he pleased. I quickly sniffed my poppers letting the fumes thin my blood and relax my muscles. He pressed me against the wall again. He spread my legs. Touch was sensitive. I felt ever inch, fingerprint, hair follicle, breath and thought. He kissed the back of my neck. I felt slippery. He slapped his dick on my ass getting it as hard as it was going to get. I sniffed my poppers again. I closed my eyes. I had been pressed against that wall so many times as if I never left it. He inserted himself. I knew the feeling well how the snake slithers passed the slippery doors and dance. I rode the friction. I softly moaned. I sniffed my poppers. I spread my legs wider. I arched my back. I rode the friction. The high from the poppers made me start hallucinating and I felt as if I was sinking into that wall. I could see my reflection. I could see the ghosts of black boys like myself who’d been fucked in that same booth now gone. I sniffed my poppers. I begged for him to go deeper. I was safe. In that booth, I was safe. I didn’t have to be anybody, do nothing with my life, and just get fucked. Twenty minutes later, “Oh nigga, you gonna make me cum!”

Afterwards, I remember first looking at my watch and then at him. It was the first time I really saw his face. In the dark booth, a blue neon light flashed across his face like a short-circuited hotel sign. He fell back against the other side of the booth and opened his eyes. We were now staring at each other. On the inside, lusting, two men only see flesh - a body to use and be used. After lust, when dicks go soft and words not so easy, we were just two human beings seeing each other in harsh light for the first time. I immediately grabbed the waist of my jeans and pull them to my hips. I was ready for my next prey. I couldn’t help but look at his face. He was cute. His eyes were lucid and clairvoyant, stabbing through me like he gave birth to me. His eyes, two oval universes of complicated hazel and unpretentious. He was beautiful. I didn’t like that he was taller and thinner than me. I didn’t know he was so young. He looked like a baby no more than twenty years old. He looked so innocent. And then he smiled as too comfort me or to say “Hello, again.” I buttoned my jeans. He pulled the condom from his dick and let it land on the floor. I handed him a napkin to wipe his dick. I thought he would get embarrassed and immediately run for the door and I’d never see him again. He grabbed the napkin and wiped his dick and then placed it in his t-shirt pocket. I thought it was funny that he would leave his used condom on the floor but put the napkin in his pocket. He pulled up his jogging pants. I decided to leave.
Are you leaving?
We’re finished.
What’s your name again?
Sean? No, it’s Michael
That was weird. I’d never given anyone my real name in years. I immediately regretted it. I blamed the poppers and my head being a little light. But I was always high so I knew it was more than a slip-up.
I thought you told me Sean
I did. I lied.
So why you telling me the truth now?
I don’t know.
Well my name is Chris.
Is that your real name?
I wouldn’t lie to you.
You should.
I want to see you again?
Why?
I don’t know.
Give me your number and I will call you.
I wasn’t going to call. Bookstores and Bathhouses weren’t the stories you told your kids how I met Daddy. And I wasn’t looking for love. Anything but love. I figured because he was a bookstore virgin he didn’t know the rules. And he looked so cute and innocent, like he’d just got a girl pregnant and wanted to do the right thing. I didn’t want to upset his ignorance. I figured I would pretend with him. He pulled me close to him, reached into my pocket, grabbed my cell phone and programmed his number. I told myself I would delete it on the walk home.
You’re not going to call; I can see it in your eyes.
You don’t trust me.
You already lied to me.
Well…
It doesn’t matter because I believe in maybe.
What is that suppose to mean?
It means I have faith in you.
What, you’re some religious freak.
No. Damn you’re difficult.
You don’t even know me.
You will call.
How you figure that?
Because you won’t let me get the last sentence.
You’re funny.
He was so damn sure of himself, to be so young. And then again, I was at the point where I’d decided everyone knew the answer but me. He opened the door and left. I swear immediately I felt changed. I missed him. I fell back against the wall and smiled. It was instant. I didn’t know what it was at first, but I knew I wasn’t the same. After all the men, all their lines and lies, he felt new. Usually at a place like that, I liked to come undone. I liked to get fucked and abused until my hole was sloppy and overflowed with stench of cum. I liked turning my back to the wall, with my pants down to my ankles, sniff my poppers and just be used. I liked the concrete on my knees. In that place, I didn’t want to be beautiful. I wanted to be ugly. I liked to get so numb and fell no pain and no sense of identity but be completely hopeless like the spit, spilled liquor and men’s abortion on the floor. In that place, I wasn’t looking for release. Sex for me had always been empty. I never really enjoyed it. I’d fuck ten men in one night and still want more. I would stay on my knees until they bled and still want more. I’d take dick in the ass, mouth, hands, face, between the thighs, threesome, gangbang, S&M and still want more. I could never be satisfied. I just needed to exhaust my body. After he left me, I suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore. I didn’t feel like the hunt. I decided to go home. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. Shit, my life was already complicated enough.
*************
I was thirty-one years old and drowning. I had been questioning my existence. It was like a huge gush of wind had pushed me into the deep end of the pool and I couldn’t swim. I was struggling, choking on panic as frantic hands tried to grab the edges but slipping. I didn’t even know if I wanted to live--and that’s fucked up when you’re drowning, not knowing if you want to live or not. I could never stay sober enough time to make the decision. The days began to blend into each other. I was getting older against my will. I didn’t believe in anything. No self-preservation. Just destruction. I had been questioning. I realized my plan to die at twenty five years old like James Dean, young and tragic had failed.
********************
I had to make a choice. I was questioning my existence. I tried to make myself forget about him. I waited an entire week before I decided to call. I just wanted to talk. I hadn’t had a real conversation in years. I thought about him a lot. I couldn’t get him out of my mind. And I tried to get clean. I found myself writing his name. Even when I touched myself, his memory only appeared. I tried to think about other fucks, but it always came back to him. I could only get off thinking about him. I wanted to know why, so I decided to call him. I was nervous. I figured he’d forgotten all about me. I figured he wouldn’t answer the phone. I dialed his number one night on my way back from the gym. I prayed that he didn’t answer. I prayed that he pretend like he didn’t know me and hang up the phone in my face. I prayed that he’d be cruel, so that I could awake from fantasizing about him. He answered. I tried to be nonchalant. I told him I was just calling because I accidentally found his number. He laughed. He invited me over to his place. I felt myself go cold. I wanted to say no, but instead I was taking directions. I was changing directions. I just wanted to talk. I didn’t want to see him. It took a subway ride and two buses to get to his house. He didn’t live in the best neighborhood. I was sober. I hadn’t had the chance to stop by the liquor store. I hoped there would be one in his neighborhood. I couldn’t find one. I started to turn back around but I was already at his apartment. I knocked on the door. I hoped he would have liquor. He opened his door. I figured in the unforgiving hallway lights he’d change his mind that I wouldn’t be so appealing outside the bookstore, or even better, he wouldn’t be as cute as I remembered. He opened his door and he was still beautiful. He was even better looking. He had on no shirt, just white gym shorts, no socks or shoes. He’d just got his hair braided by a good friend. He didn’t tell me his friends would be over. I felt paralyzed in the hallway. I had come from the gym. I didn’t even take a shower. I had on a baseball cap, wife beater, jeans and my infamous sandals. I thought he would slam the door in my face. He told me to come in and put my stuff in his room. I walked into his humble apartment, he was obviously young, and most of his furniture looked like it came from a flea market. I walked to his room and laid my bag down on his bed, tried to think of an excuse where I could leave early, and then I felt him behind me, his breath on the back of my neck, and when I turned around he pushed me on the bed, and we started kissing. He tore off my wife beater, promised to buy me another one, but I didn’t care about the shirt. In the next breath he was out of his shorts, and he was so damn hard, but I had to stop him, there were other people in the next room, people I didn’t know. He grabbed a towel, folded his hard dick against his stomach and wrapped a thick baby blue towel around his waist. He hurried outside to his friends and told them they had to go. When they protested, he apologized but told them they had to get out of his house, that he would talk to them later. I heard shuffling, some cursing, but soon it was quiet, and a door shut. I felt like a bitch who just got roses for Valentine’s day that he would put his friends out just for me. He came back to the room, without his towel, his dick still rock hard. I removed my jeans, and we attacked each other like two wolves in the wild. I’d missed him. My body missed him.

At the bus stop going home, I knew I was in trouble. I hadn’t had sex sober with another human-being since I was a teenager. I knew I was in trouble because I knew the feeling. It was the same feeling like the first time I did ecstasy how suddenly everything became lucid. I felt complete. I knew I was in trouble. And I kept going back. Every time I would leave him, I’d tell myself that it was the last time, but I kept going back. I had found a new drug. And Love was instant. Nobody told me it would be that fast. That anyone could fall that fast. I mean I heard of love at first sight, but I was a rational person. I had become a pro at avoiding emotion. I felt as if my life had become a bad sitcom and that corny shit wasn’t supposed to happen to boys like me. Love just infected and asked questions later. Love didn’t care I didn’t love myself. Love didn’t care I wasn’t ready. I remember one Sunday, and I had been seeing him for a couple of months, and I was lying in his arms tormented. I started thinking about shit I never worried about. I still couldn’t keep a job. I didn’t have a bank account. I had bad credit. I still didn’t own my life. I was still a fuck up and drank everyday. Nothing had slowed down or changed, except for the fact I was in love. I knew it. I’d never known the feeling but I knew I was in love. It was all wrong. I needed to wake up fast. I tried the cold showers. I was in his arms that Sunday and my mind was telling me to run because somebody was going to get hurt. I knew it was going to me. I begin to feel like a prisoner. I was lying in his arms that Sunday, watching some god-awful movie about dragons, and he kept giving away all the scenes, and my mind was screaming. I was in his arms, his right hand on my stomach, could feel him smiling and when I tried to get up to leave, run, the farthest I would get was his eyes --then it was back to his lips. His lips were magnetic, refusing to let me go. I could taste blood when I kissed him. My heart was in between his teeth. I couldn’t run, but I was going to try. And the fucked up thing about love was that it’s unforgiving. There I was in the brightest light, naked. Who was I? I didn’t know who I was anymore. Who was I? Who was Sean? First, Sean wasn’t my real name. He was my alter ego. He was someone I created to escape Michael. I kept asking myself if it was Michael or Sean in love with him. Because Sean didn’t fall in love. Sean wanted to run, but Michael wanted to stay. I told him my real name, so I knew it was Michael in love, but I couldn’t have him. There I was, in his arms, on trial. Love takes your soul to court. Can’t hide from love. There I was on the stand, naked, with the bright light illuminating all my flaws and indiscretions. I kept thinking could he possibly love me, if he knew. I didn’t even know my HIV status. I’d done too much. I never thought I would care nor have a reason to care. There were too many questions I wasn’t ready to deal with. I couldn’t imagine that he could love me back? I had accepted that I was just a fuck up. I was suppose to die tragically, that was the plan. Why was the universe fucking up the plan? I had accepted that I might end up on the streets, some crazy homeless man. Boys like me were insignificant. I wasn’t supposed to fall in love. I wasn’t worth love. I couldn’t understand my emotions anymore. And there I was in his arms, in love, knowing that it was impossible. Such a fucked up word, love. And I kept wondering how he did it. There were too many others and I never felt a thing. There were others who treated me kind and gave me things but I never felt a thing. I never loved anybody. And I kept wondering how did he do it? Like did he do some voodoo like pee in my lemonade, steal a lock of my hair, or feed me his blood in a stew? I wanted to know how he crept in my soul, so I could find a cure. I needed to take the sharpest knife and remove the feeling. I knew nothing good could come from it. I wasn’t supposed to love. I was supposed hurt for the rest of my life. I knew I needed to find a way out. And then he did what I feared most, started asking me questions.

How many men have you slept with?
Why you want to know?
Just curious.
That’s a boyfriend question.
Then pretend I’m your boyfriend.
I don't know. I stopped counting a long time ago.
How many do you guess?
You really want to know?
Don't get shy now.
Over a 1000, maybe 2000.
Damn.

I felt exposed. I never thought anybody would ask that question. I never thought I fuck one person more than two times. And he said.

I could be happy.
Be it.
I could be happy with you.
Maybe.
Maybe what?
I could be a fool.
A fool in love?
I could be a fool stupid enough to think I could be happy with you.
You could?
Maybe. Maybe not. I have to get home.
Spend the night.
I have things to do tomorrow.
. I knew from the very first moment I saw you. I was going to be your savior.
Don't say stupid shit like that.
Why? You don't want to be rescued?
Just don't. You confuse me.
You're afraid of me. I see it in your eyes. You want to run, but you can't. I got you.
Let's not ruin the moment with all this irrelevant sentiment. Believe what you want to believe. It always ends the same.

***************

At first I thought I wanted freedom from him because I didn’t want to deal with the responsibility of a relationship. I didn’t want to have to give up anything, be compromised. I knew I wasn’t ready. I was too old to change. He was too young. I had too many issues. It just wasn’t going to work. Yet, the heart wants what it wants. It started to fuck with my mind. I couldn’t cheat. I tried sleeping with other guys but I couldn’t do it. I started thinking about bills. I started thinking about his bills and us getting a better place. And then I would get so pissed. I just couldn’t just the feeling. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I wanted a life with him. I was so afraid. I knew he was just playing with me. I was like the mouse and he was the damn cat. I just wanted him to get it over with. It was all excuses. I had to pick a fight. I had to find some way to get out of it.

How did I get here again?
You keep coming back.
You really need to get some furniture. I've been having sex with you almost a year on this raggedy mattress.
You haven't been complaining so far.
Maybe I'm too sober.
Are you staying the night?
No.
I want you to stay.
Why?
I don't know.

You've gotten comfortable.
What's that suppose to mean?
You broke our agreement.
Which is?
You fell in love with me.
That's bullshit.
Yes, that bullshit.
I think you're in love with me.
That's interesting.
You keep coming back.
You're a good fuck.
And you tell me personal things.
After a couple of cocktails, there isn't anything I probably won't tell you.
You act like my bitch, complaining all the time.
Lately you've been acting like the bitch. You've gotten comfortable.
You just have to fuck things up, don't you?
You're becoming weak.
What's with the suitcase? You moving in here?
And you'd just let me?
Why not?
It wouldn't work.
You mean you don't want to try.
I don't want to talk about it.
Why do you get like this?
What?
All depressed. If you so damn unhappy, why don't you do something about it instead of bitch and complain.
I like bitching and complaining.
You like suffering.
Maybe I do.
All because your mother left you in a hotel when you were nine.
She abandoned me! She walked away and left me alone.
And that's your excuse.
Not good enough for you?

That's all it is, an excuse.
Habits are hard to break.
You are so full of bullshit, you know that? You do what you do because you're lazy. You lack discipline. You don't want to try. You've been lucky that you had people in your life that's allowed your laziness, your excuses. You ain't fooling me.
Is that your version of "Telling me like it is?"
Somebody needs to.
Heard it all before.
You just haven't listened.
You don't know me.
I think you get off on people not knowing you. Is that knowing you? And what if I do feel something for you? You're just going to walk away.
I warned you.
I ain't that motherfucker going around falling in love with every nigga I see.
And look what you fell in love with.
And what is so wrong with you?
You just don't see it, do you?
You're just crazy that's all. We can get passed it.
We? Have you really thought about what you're proposing? "We" is more than me just meeting you here at night to fuck. You're not ready.
No more ready than you are.
This isn't an argument.
So what's with your suitcase?
Don't ask stupid questions.
When?
I came to say goodbye.
Where are you going?
I don't know.
Good plan. And what are you running away from this time?
Good question.
I know this isn't the first time.
But this time is different.
How?
It just is.
And what about me?
You will figure it out.
You can't keep doing this.
Doing what?
You know what you do.
I told you in the beginning not to fall in love with me.
But I am.
That's your problem. You were warned. What did you think, that you would be different?
Yes.
Your mistake.
I don't know what to say to you.
Don’t say anything.
Who do you love?
Nobody. I don't even love myself.
I don't believe you.
I don't give a damn about what you believe. I don't give a damn about you.
I don't believe you.
I have to go.
Where?
Away.
What are you fighting for?
What?
It was a simple question.
Goodbye Chris.
Go to hell Michael.
That's how you're going to say goodbye to me.
What else am I am suppose to say. Thank you for breaking my heart. You are a sorry ass nigga and I never should've fuck with you in the first place. Get the fuck out of my house. GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE NIGGA!
I'm sorry.


It had to be that cruel. It had to be that cold. It had to be that confusing. It was the only way I knew he would let me go. I had to wear him down. I had to make him think I wasn’t savable. I wasn’t savable. After I shot myself, I knew death was real.
Think about your own life. Think about how you’re fucked up. What would you change? I would change everything.