she is

She never really wanted to tell anyone how she felt. The truth was, she sort of enjoyed putting up a false front. In her own melancholy way, it was a game. She sat there all the while, waiting for people to confront her about her problems. No one ever did. They all treated her like she was normal. She wasn't normal. She never was normal. To her, normal was as nonexistent as god. She looked at her petty excuse of a life as a waste of time. She considered the days she was awake to be miserable. She could never find a consoling thought to get her through the day. She kept herself going with cocktails mixed of Valium, alcohol, Vikodin, and anything else she could use. She was a sucker for lithium, but she found it harder and harder to get. She never really wanted to tell anybody anything. She was a recluse. Her soul was folded over upon itself. I used to think about this girl every day, but she sort of started to trickle off my radar. I gradually let her slip from the cold gray folds of my brain until one day, she was nothing to me. She came back in a daydream, like the ripple on a pond's surface. the write-up in the paper was short. One of those glamorous shots that people have on file just in case they need a file photo was propped eerily above her story. She died yesterday. She went out with the trash. Her false front didn't save her. When she came crashing down, that porcelain front shattered like her scared soul. I remembered the time i called her a bitch. Was that the push it took to send her spiraling? It went from this, to that, to this, to that, over and over again. There's a memorial fund set up in her name. Maybe i'll send her a few dollars instead of buying myself a drink tonight. The truth of the matter is i need a drink after reading this. I need to drink en memoriam. I need to drink to her post mordem. I just needed to drink. She's gone, and i can't help but feel responsible. She never really wanted to tell anyone how she felt, and i never really thought about stopping to listen.