I drink. A lot. Not that much, but enough, enough to numb the bad feelings. Too many bad feelings, watching you leave. It’s your fault, you’re the reason I’m here, feet dangling over the edge. I watch them below, like ants crawling across the sidewalk, and I drink some more. I drink tonight at sunset with pigeons as partners, cooing their disapproval and shitting on my ledge.
It’s your fault that I’m here. Ultimatums are for people who don’t trust. I thought you trusted me. Trusted that I wouldn’t hurt, or take advantage. So I drink. You cheat. Cheating hurts. You cheat and then give this fucking ultimatum, you think you can bargain your way back in, you think what I do is justification for your bad behavior.
I drink in hopes the decision will be made for me. And that I won’t feel the landing. I’m not sure this bottle is big enough for the scope of my problems, it hasn’t yet erased you from my mind. I know this is a ‘no return’ moment, the second one this week. The first was finding you buried in another pussy. I could have possibly come back from that. But not from the dead look when you met my eyes. Your lack of shame, of regret, of remorse. If you knew me like you say you do, you’d have known the word to turn it around then.
Yeah, I drink. But this? This is my last one.