You could ask my parents but they’ll leave you with maybe’s

Ask my mother or my father and they’ll tell you that I’ve never been one for friends or alcohol. Or alcoholic friends.
She’s more of a loner
they’ll tell you with toothy smiles and kind eyes
I see them receding, milky and wet
they’re always a little bit blind,
a little bit deaf and unresponsive
when I’m sitting over on the edge of the red leather sofa
crying, saying “this” and “that” and they listen and nod
and say
there there
They don’t really say that,
really they say a lot more
and I listen and nod
But it feels a little too much like a “there there
not enough like a good old fashioned
I believe you
So alcohol and friends are worming their ways through my little comfort bubble. Friends are on the forefoot and alcohol is lingering way behind, I think it’s far too overweight and unfit to perforate my walls so I stick my tongue at while I’m looking over the shoulder of my new best friends.
Laughing, crying and cringing together, sharing way too much information and pinky swearing to keep it a secret; these are the very crumbs humanity is bound in.

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