train

I feel like I'm on a speeding train and I want nothing more than to jump off. I'm scared. I'm looking at the ground flying by- the blurry pattern that half dead grass and tracks make at two hundred miles an hour. I have no idea where its heading, or if it'll ever even get there before the whole damn thing derails. It just keeps getting faster and faster and I almost can't see the pattern anymore.

This is all too much. This is not enough.

Tell me a story

“Tell me a story.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tell me a story.” She repeated slower this time, lifting the small black stick up to her mouth.
“A story?”
“Yes.” Irritation made her voice raspier. Or maybe it was the cloves she was chain smoking.
“What about?”
She sighed. A deep sigh of disappointment. Or maybe it was just her lungs trying to draw in as much unpolluted air as they could before she lit up another cigarette. “About you.”
-----------
She just suddenly materialized in front of me one day in line. I have no idea what the line was for, I just know she was there- making a scene. She was good at making scenes.
There was something frightening about her, but I think that whatever it was that sent my body into a panic and made every nerve scream, “Run,” also made her undeniably alluring. Physically, I know why I was so drawn to her. Everything about her was slender and stretched out, giving her a feline-like quality that was only enhanced by the fact that her eyes were large, round, gold orbs that burned everything within their sight.

The weather today

When you try to mend the broken past and they all just turn away- grind your teeth until your jaw hurts almost as bad as your heart.

When he comes around and all you can think is "I'm gonna get fucked over." and everyone echos "You're gonna get fucked over."- pour yourself a shot. Nevermind its barely after noon. Repeat next time you talk to him and make it a double after you see him next.

When you see her fall all over herself- roll your eyes. Then when you realize you do the same- finish the bottle.

When you start to understand everything you ever create will be nothing more than medicore and common- rip up your notebook and cry yourself to sleep.

Home

Right now you're on your way back to a family that never gave a shit and are only making plans because it's the "proper" thing to do. And when you get there they'll wash your hair and comb it away from your shut eyes and paint your face up like a china doll- rosy cheeks, porcelain skin. The suit they dress you in will have to be new- all the old ones left behind in the attic will barely cover the track marks along your long arms.
There will be a short viewing where estranged relatives will all pass by and murmur false phrases about how you were a "fine boy" and how what happened was "such a shame" to your parents who will graciously accept all the feigned sympathy. And on the long drive back to their hotel they'll shake their heads and say to one another in hushed tones how they always knew you'd end up this way.
Yeah, well, you always knew it too.

Nowhere

Her eyes fly open, fixed directly on me. Looking, but not seeing. Her pupils are so large I can barely make out a thin ring of dark green under the translucent gloss that covers it. Her breathing is disturbing to me. Rhythmless, ragged gasps. Her body thrusts up against mine, but she's not trying to get closer to me. She's not there. I shut my eyes but I can still hear her struggling to pull enough air into her spasming lungs. I'm not stupid or vain enough to believe she's in the throes of ecstasy.

My eyes fly open when she pulls me to her and screams. She's back. I'm never sure where exactly her mind goes when I slip inside of her. What she's seeing. What she's feeling. But I'm sure that it's something dark that makes her eyes glaze over like they do. Something that would terrify me if I ever asked and if she ever told.

...but you're in my bed tonight

As soon as I saw her arms I wanted to cry. They were exactly as you had described, in abstract terms of course, but here they were. Real flesh and bone and ink. All of your favorite things, mentioned in passing, were there. The shapes, colors, the proportions. All along you were telling me that what you wanted, that what you liked, was her.

"I wrote you a tune about your dead lovers,
don't worry my dove, you'll soon have another."

His breath is a dead giveaway. He's starving. His body is eating itself, trying to keep him alive. Fat being broken down into ketones until there's nothing left but the soursweet smell.