I'M NOT ADRIFT | Eminem

Lighting a cigarette, I silently contemplate what answer I should give him.
I don't smoke.
He'll offer me one.
He sees me as ruthless.
Desperate for a high.
Surely I'll want a cigarette.
That'll only make me for cliché.
"Want one?"
I shake my head.
'No'

I don't need more addictions, more dangerous habits.
I'll keep it to one for now.
I grab the pill bottle out of my large cargo pant pocket instead.

Music plays, my parents partying upstairs.
It's the kind of house music you enjoy during the few minutes it's playing but then proceed to never remember.
It all sounds the same.
We hide underneath them, not disturbing my father's birthday.
I'll celebrate with him another time.

I don't care that he's smoking in my house.
There are enough hammered people upstairs not taking the time to light one up outside.
I slide the cap till I find the ridge, clicking it open and fishing for three pills.
"Do your parents know?"

My eyebrows knit together.
Know what?
My eyes narrow, turning my head to look at him.
What is he talking about?

His large hand holds the cigarette with just the right amount of care and disregard, bringing it to his lips.
He stares at me as if I'm supposed to understand.
Raising an eyebrow.
'You know what I mean'

"Know what?"

"About what we do"
Oh yeah.
That.

There are bruises all over me.
Except the face.
The face is off limits.
I can't cover my face.
My arms look like the art pieces of an infant child given the limited color palette of red, purple, pink, and blue.
If I were white, it would be much more out in the open.
My stomach isn't all that better.
I've got a couple marks on my legs as well.

"They don't know... it's winter so I can get away with layers... I'll probably have to give this shit up in the summer, I don't fucking wanna know what they'd do if they found out"
I bring my head to my hands.
My fingers repeatedly rub at my eyes, even though they don't itch.
It just feels good.

When I finally stop, my gaze goes to his.
My eyes search for something, my expression sheepish.
It's as if I'm silently asking him what he thinks.

He gives me a cross look, as if he can't think of much.
His eyes drift up to the ceiling.
He looks directly into the pot light.
I watch the reflection of light against his irises.

"Can't you join a boxing club or something? I honestly don't see why you make me do this shit."
I don't pay him anymore.
He's now my second friend.
That's two hole friends!
He actually spends time with me cause he likes me... wow!

"It's not the same" I drag out an exaggerated sigh of discontent.
It's not the same type of thrill.

"It's special... it feels isolating... in a good way. Like I'm doing something unfavourable... distasteful."
It's destructive.
It's pure mayhem.

"To the average person yes. It's one thing to box and you know... fight back... it's another for you to just get others to beat you up like a sick pervert" he chuckles, finding my behaviour comedic, humorous.
He takes another drag and drops the hand down to his knee.
Looking at me, he watches for me to make my next move.

"I am sick.. huh..?" I sigh, swimming in the acceptance.
Well.

"Man, why are you like this?" He asks as if I know the answer.
I think I partially do.
I want to feel my mortality.
I want to feel like an individual while also feel the weight of knowing there's nothing special about me.
I don't deserve anything.

"If God's real, and I meet him... I know he'll ask me that. He'll ask me, why?"
Why do you sneak out of your house in the middle of the night just so you can go on a walk?
Why do you buy spray paint so you can vandalize corporate buildings with poetry of love?
Why do you crawl into a ball and let the cold shower water fall onto you as if a form of punishment?
Why do you scream into the air at midnight, as if people can't hear you?
Why do you take your bat to the tree?
Wood on wood.
It's all so stupid.
Why do you let people physically destroy you?
Is it just for the melodramatics? Is it some protest of life?

"Don't you know that everyone is here for a reason? That everyone is special? That everyone is made from love?"
I try to recount the words Christians have spoken to me.
If God is real, he doesn't like me.
That's fine. You don't gotta like everyone.

"I'll tell him he has it wrong. We aren't worth anything. I'm not worth anything, I'm not inflicted with my problem's because of some grand scheme in the universe because I deserve it... it's just some messed up brain chemistry. That's it. Something so mind numbingly boring..."
I've thought of this possible conversation a thousand times.
I've thought of what it would be like to talk with someone who saw my whole life, everything.
Who saw how I really was.
How they would react.
"He'd tell me, 'no, that's not it', and I would stare at him, on his large, theatrical throne. I wouldn't try to convince him otherwise. You can't convince God of anything. If you can't reach someone, give up."

It's Alex's turn to sigh, giving me a flat frown, slouching into the couch and just listening to me.
Most of the time I keep up appearances.
I play the jester and make everyone feel comfortable.
But some times I let go and just let what I'm thinking about come to it's physical form in words.

There's a painful silence.
He just takes a long inhale of the sickly delicious cigarette, smoke filling his lungs.
I watch intently.
I love it through him.
I feel the enjoyment of it strictly through watching it.

At least I can joke.
I grab the cigarette from his hand, keeling it close to my face but not taking a drag.
"I open up my home to you, we broke bread together, my grand-mama made you a cannoli, and this is how you repay my generosity?" I do a shitty God-Father impression, laying on a horribly done Italian accent, gesturing with my hands before placing it back in his grip.

He scoffs before laughing loudly.
The tension is over.
Things are back to being the same.
Light.
Comfortable.
Normal.

Somewhere in my future, I'm with the person I l love.
He'll never be told about tonight.
I don't think I'll ever tell him this.
He'll accept me for what he sees.
Mostly the truth.
I promise I'll be truthful...
But there's always more you don't know.
Boxes unopened.
Lost conversations.
Hospital visits.
Another part of yourself, left behind.