[TEXT] Backdated to August 3rd

[killthisparty]

[CW for alcohol/substance abuse and intense depressive talk.]

iwonder if itd supposed tobe funny
all ths shit
you nkoe? beign stuck here
not being s person no more
but not rly a ghost

they talk to u slike they arent in charge
even if its not their choice
hey talk like they cant be blamerd for it
n some of u actually eat that uyp

they took two fo mine
two of ours. down to half

dont give a fuck if theyre not doing it
i dont casre
i hope the fucking robots wipe them out
every single one of them

have fun on ur lil roadtrip

Comments

[killthisparty]

[ He shifts along with the pull from Jet's arm, until he's up against the other killjoy's side. He appreciates the comfort. He appreciates the understanding, without having to struggle to find words to even begin to explain the things he does. He's never been good at direct conversation.

He lets his head drop against the side of Jet's shoulder, knees tucked back up so he can keep his arms around them. He feels like he might fall apart - not with a bang, not with a shatter, but just quietly and gone.]

They're never coming back. [ Not a question. Not asking for a rebuttal or a positive spin on what he's saying. He's just stating what, to him, is fact. To think otherwise would be to just keep digging into a wound that's already infected.]

[laststartofall]

[If anyone is going to understand Party Poison, it would be Jet Star. It's years of observation that have brought him to this point of being able to read the man without words, to understand the difference between what he does and says and what he really means.

That he accepts that arm around him without complaint says a great deal.]

Maybe. [He can't deny it, because the wound is just as deep for him and just as tender to prod at with attempts at reassurance. He can't deny it, because denying it would be a lie.]

Maybe not. Can't say it for sure. But I'm here, right now.