Just.

I'm the one that gets you drunk. I spend the money, while you drink up. Like every weekend, you're a mess before we even get there. I'm half way there, but then my love for you kicks in and my logic takes over. It's been a while since you've been able to remember a night out. With my help you're putting together the pieces but you can't see the whole picture. Then again, if you cared, what does it matter. You're falling up the stairs, you're screaming my name, you're doing the dance that you always do and by fuck you're embarrassing. Leaving you alone will only mean you end up on the floor, again, gashing your fingers open on some broken glass. Letting you stay and chat with him will only make you do something else you'll regret. Turning a blind eye might mean you won't make it home tonight. I'll be right back but you've already gone and thrown up on the dance floor, introductions will have to wait until you're sober. You're being loud, you're getting into trouble, you're talking more and more shit and you're getting on my nerves and playing on my patience. At least you're silent when you're passed out on the bus home. At least it's not far for you to stumble home. At least you know this means I love you.

S.