‘Maybe’, you think, ’Maybe I’ll die.’
You crack a smile and run your hands along the marble counter top, wishing the edge was razor sharp, so every time you touched it you could bleed just enough to let every know how fucked up you really are. You shake your head and crack your neck, maybe today will be your lucky day, and maybe someone will come in and blow your brains all over the clean white walls behind the cash register.
Here’s hoping you at least give someone Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

It’s one AM, you’re rounding that corner too fast, your headlights off and tires sliding on the ice, cause you’re half wishing you’ll hit someone. Hoping you’ll make some family half as miserable as you feel right now. But you’re not that lucky, you would be the only one wrapped around the telephone pole.