Someone once asked me
"Who do you turn to when everything falls apart?"
and I just stood there, looking at him. I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it. I wanted to say it'd get better, that soon, day by day, everything would slowly get a little bit clearer. That he should just give it time.
But I didn't.
because time is fleeting. Time is the seductress of late hours, the whore with whom spent long nights of indulgence, one wakes up empty and alone. Time is the tainted, timid child, beaten and broken, hiding in the corner from the bastard intoxicatino of rage that nightly molests her soul after one too many beers. Time is the innocent baby left screaming in the dumpster, with nothing but a blanket of garbage and a soiled diaper for the makings of a death bed, the wails of an innocent child with no chance at life. Time is the soul of the silent theif, black as night, which he wears as a cloak hiding both himself and the body of his most recent victim, raped then murdered after dusk, as he dumps his load into the harbor, never to be heard from again.
Instead I just stood there, arms crossed, silent. I wiped away the te ars that grazed my cheeks, and hoped he didn't notice. The number of those who get to see me cry is still zero, the title brother makes no difference on that effect. I'm not one to burden others.
I stood there, after he left, and whispered
"You turn to those who love you. You turn to me."
but he didn't hear. He'd already turned away.