When You Called At 6am

You called one Sunday morning
At the break of 6am,
To talk about whores
And aul wans
And mutual insanity.
I don’t know if you tried to make it better
By complimenting me on my personality,
Insisting my ‘bubbly’ nature
Was something new and recent,
Or if you were just too drunk
To keep up your angry charade,
Too pissed to be pissed off.
The truth is, it’s been a year,
At least,
That I’ve been this way,
And you never took to noticing.
You called me a bastard,
And I changed the topic;
On that morning, I’d slept three hours
Before you called and hung up
And called back again,
And I was not in the mood for bullshit.
I’m that guy now, aren’t I?
I’m the one who gets pissed off
By the other’s crap.
And you don’t even realise it.
In the year or more
Since you last called,
Since you last made an effort,
We became new people.
I tried to keep us going,
I tried to keep in touch,
But you just closed your eyes and ears.
You missed everything,
And you pretend not to,
Still thinking everything’s about you.
The reality is, my old friend,
Is that you were always the one
Who made selfish decisions,
For me to put up with at any hour,
Be it as you start drinking,
Or head to bed at 6am.


About Paul Carroll

Paul Carroll is a writer, born, raised and still living in Dublin. By day he's a student and bookseller, by night he writes fiction and uses social media.
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