Where Are You?

I feel melancholic. Maybe it's the regular Sunday anxiety. Maybe it's that I know I have spent the last week or so spending, when I should be saving, and drinking when I should be studying, longing when I should be forgetting, etcetera. How come some just forget things? And like in seconds, magically, they're moving on. Already on their way some place else in their hearts, in their minds, unaffected by what's behind them... but they aren't, are they? You can't go completely unaffected by everything, you can't just step on people and leave them behind to die without a single sting, a single surge, of something similar to empathy... to pain.
Who knows? Maybe I'm the abnormal one. Maybe I'm too much of a ponderer. Think too much and feel too much and let my anxiety take up too much room. Let you take up too much room. I'm stupid, so damn stupid, for letting you here, for letting you come this close in the first place. I want to shun you out but I can't. And I want to be over you but I can't. And with every happy story I hear I wonder, where are you, to take that shot for me and that bullet, when the only you I ever knew were the one to pull the trigger on me.
POET in the SHOT JAR