A Drunk Euthanist

Every after hours – the room fills with thumping bass and echoed coughs. Thought briefly of showers, only washed my face off in the basin then got drunk on something overpriced and Belgian with a fancy paper wrap. I could taste the sulphur pulling from the red head of the match because I couldn’t find my bic (though I suspect it’s in my car). I use the stove to light my cigs and burn tobacco in the dark of a nearly happy neighborhood where power lines run through the woods I cut through when I’m running late for school or presentations and think, man never knew beauty – not if he built these cold creations – you can see DC still glowing to the soggy wet southwest. Cold enough to see cigarette smoke transition to breath then drop it in a bottle and forget it’s still on fire. Inside I force myself to drink and hope that I get tired enough to make the morning (God, I fail hard at alarms). And I can’t help but hear warnings in the slamming of a car door somewhere on my street. Perfectly quiet – wait for feet, wait for smashing and then grabbing – but there’s nothing but a beat of silence in my heart and lungs and my freshly pickled tongue. I pour myself another because I am lonely and young and this is how my kind abides, how we stifle fevered minds – see? They’re not kamchatka irises but only pretty eyes.

~ by perfectionatrix on November 6, 2010.

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