Poison Control, Summer 2003

August 26, 2019 AG-web@dmin

6 a.m. he calls me – I am in a dead sleep, or sleeping like the dead & he’s on my doorstep with no keys.  He’s slurring.  It’s hard to get him inside;  he hasn’t left my apartment in 2 years so now he lives here.  Has he been drugged?  He’s crying & I am worried someone stabbed him in the spinal cord.  He says he’s just drunk, though he is vomiting blood and making me nervous.  He said he had a dream a few hours before that he died:  “Love me or I’ll die.”  But I hate him in this moment.  He keeps saying he will die if I continue to be emotionally cold, why am I such a goddamn ice queen?  Then he says he’s wasted his 32 year old life.  This is when I call poison control.  They say to wake him up every half hour.  I am terrified to go back to sleep, but I am sick with a head cold and night shifts.  I don’t know if it’s the alcohol talking or a metaphor for how he really feels about me, this wasteland.  It’s now 7 a.m.  I can’t believe he’s so careless.  I notice he’s knocked over my latest painting – it’s on the floor in the kitchen.  Maybe it fell from the telepathic force of his self-absorption.  He looks up at me in a stupor, and says that he’s just finally understood my art, and it really does mean something.