He lights a ciggarette,
one good
long
puff,
and stares into the ever growing night.
He doesn't smoke.
He doesn't fuck on the first date.
He doesn't kiss and tell.
At least...
That's what he tells his mother.
The veranda's too cold.
He's too cool.
He hucks the death stick across the lawn, and walks back into that empty four-lettered word.
He never understood those one puff heroes.
And yet, he had become one.
Lighting.
Forgetting.
Letting the ash plop to the floor
the smoke roll on his tongue.
The gentle extinguish as ember and paper met filter.
Unforgiven, unnoticed, arbitrarily executed by cotton and fiber glass.
He strolls to his lit, humming PC, and opens a project, a letter, a confession, a poem...
but only types out these letters
I
F u c k i n g
h a t e
y o u
The screen blinks back, like a littered mirror.
He's not sure who he hates more.
Himself
the binary life partner lashed to his soul
that tart he gave up a large portion of his soul to just for some mild tail?
Before he knew it
there was another ciggarette
another dry, filthy, stinking mockery of air escaping his lips.
Not enough
the bile was rising rapidly to the back of his teeth
nothing in reach to cram it back down
so he bolts for the porcelain
the dirty tub
the fuzzy backed up sink
the often used and mistreated god
He chooses wisely.
The burning remnants of tonight's supper, and a few squirts of blood empty into the pot.
Nothing to worry about
its over now right?
blurred vision, a light headache...
He's not done.
Give him a minute.
He and his insurmountable nerouses
and that crippling lonliness
the absence of someone awful...
just slightly more terrible than the absence of an anyone.
Holding onto the clay saviour
ruptured ejaculated sold spent.
Forgotten.
Watering eyes.
Spasming abdomen
all over
All over.
The kiss of tile on his cheek,
is warm
in a cold
numbing sort of way.
An engaged girl smiled at him.
Gave him an encouraging letter.
A lifeline.
An epitaph.
A pocket obelisk of hope.
A raving, drunk,
gay,
car crash survivor
had kissed his face.
Three times in a night.
He was catnip to the undesired
and the delightfully impossible.
The computing leash pulls him back to his assigned seat
and he types out the following,
perhaps unwillingly.
I
a m
a l l
t h a t
e v e r
w a s
a n d
e v e r
w i l l
b e
I
a m
t h e
g r e a t
d e s t r o y e r
o f
I
He takes an old, old
pistol
out of the drawer and empties the chambers
stuffs ciggarettes into the cylinders.
r e a l
p o e t s
t a k e
r i s k s
R e a l
l i f e
t a k e s
a l l.
