Home to addicts and whores, the lost and the forgotten, the needy and the cursed. What a fitting name: Bleeker Street. Bleak Street is more like it.
I ask myself how could just one hit do so much damage and why did you feel so alone in this world of seven billion who “care?”
Fuck the things we’re supposed to have and the things we’re supposed to be, the things we’re allowed to show and the things we are not. Who says this shit? Who makes these ridiculous rules, rules about us, about you?
You were good. You were true: smiling and honest, gentle with animals and tattooed like a son of a bitch that might scare most away – except those who knew your heart.
Yet in the darkness and the painful silence that closes in, emptiness still brought you down didn’t it? You never found the freedom, the love for yourself that couldn’t come from others. You never found the way in, so instead you chose the way out.
I barely knew you really, but I know myself and I know the depths of a broken spirit and a broken home, a self-destruct button and a need for… so much. Yet I can’t fathom it, and I’m angry: angry that you didn’t know people cared. And I’m sad, and scared for those little boys who may never understand…
You would have enjoyed it: after the priest prayed, they played heavy metal and we wrote all over your casket so you could be buried with some truth, with some heart and the respect we all came to give – respect we wish we had shown more freely when you were alive. I smile at the graffiti on your coffin. I can see you skateboarding over it with irreverence, laughing.
I only have fond thoughts except for one: the one that haunts me, the one that tells me I wasn’t there when you most needed my help. I didn’t know you were in that much trouble. Why didn’t you say more? Press me harder? That call didn’t seem so serious, but it really was. My God it was. Why didn’t I pick up on that? Fuck!
Alone in a stairwell on Bleeker street, really? Alone with a needle, truly? Alone forever! Alone…
© kym darkly