The alone, the once-loved, the tired of it all. This one’s for you.
The ones who didn’t make champagne toasts. The ones who didn’t make resolutions, because “What’s the point? Already broken so many before.” You.
The ones who heard muted bass throbs, and sing-song laughter, and three two one through stucco walls. The ones who put their ears to the wall. The ones who didn’t. This one goes out to you.
The terminally ill, the mentally diseased, the unlucky. You.
The ones who thought if they could just turn their pain into art, then, maybe, maybe, it could be worth it. And the ones who realized there’s already a big sea of ignored art out there. That pain alone doesn’t make great art. The ungifted. The lazy. The undisciplined. The mediocre. The pretty good. Yeah, you.
The ones who thought if maybe, maybe, they could just change the world. The ones who finally know they never will.
The ones who realized only kindness matters. And knew that they were cruel.
The ones who see no way out.
The ones who know they deserve it. And the ones who do.
The gamblers, the addicts, the self-destroying. The ones who hate their bodies. The ugly souls. The soulless. The dreamless. The shattered. The imprisoned.
The ones in the drive-through, the ones in the express checkout line with Ben & Jerry’s.
The abandoned children. The abandoned mothers. And the men that left.
The ones who read, online, that a slug loaded into a small-gage shotgun was the most effective way. The ones who couldn’t do that to their mother.
Even you. Can I talk to you?
And if I could, what should I say? That it gets better? When that’s only partially true?
Or should I sit without speaking, by your side? So that you know you’re not alone?
But company only makes you feel lonelier, doesn’t it? That’s why you’re alone. To not feel that way. So I’ll leave you alone.
Still, this one’s for you.