A Sub-Urban nightmare

To hold back tears burns worse than letting them flow. That is one thing I've learned from this lifestyle. That and that at anytime you could lose everything. You could reach out for a hand only to swipe the air in vein. This is where the first lesson comes in. You sit in your own obsolete darkness, trying to stay strong. Trying to find a reason to live. So you call home to the one person always depend on. You call, trying to make your voice sound stronger than they really are. To try and mask the pain at least for the "Hello" before you pour out your soul. Hell, you even try practicing it a few times while the line rings. But it keeps ringing. With every little chirp, your heart sinks a little bit more.

"Hello, I'm sorry I've missed your call…"

It's now you say fuck it; let 'em flow. And they drop into little pathetic taps on the carpet. You little walk in closet becomes your cave. Your clothes become demons. Your life drifts back and forth with the hanging bulb. Your emotions lay next to the dirty clothes hamper. Your closet is inside your bedroom. You name your bedroom "Hell". Your bedroom sits in your house, so you name your house "Earth". You name the broken tufts of hair and trash "Hope". A little suburban nightmare. You become so in touch with your little universe that you start naming your new friends. The wooden door becomes "Bob". The wall you lean on, you name it after your ex-girlfriend. You call the hanging clothes the "Committee of Lost Hope". You become so entwined with your new friends that you give them jobs. Bob is now a bouncer. The wall is a slut in denial. The committee has you on trail. Suddenly your life flips around. Now you're in a courtroom, surrounded by your new friends. Bob is in a full white uniform. Your ex is testifying against you. The committee becomes a jury. You sit, begging the clothes for mercy. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I beg you to take all the evidence presented to you today. Your inner thought kicks in. I hope you take the evidence and shove it up your cotton asses. You stand up to attack the jury. You run into Bob. Even your own imaginary creations have turned on you. This brings you back to the beginning. Back to reality. No more tufts of hope. No more committee. Just you, you desperate and crying. Just you in a closet with some lifeless inanimate objects. You pray for their lifeless, emotionless hearts. You scream to the God that has forsaken you to end it then. This way they'll find you, cold and lonely. Drowning in your own tears and despair. Then you snap back. You've been up all night. The committee of Lost Hope hasn't moved an inch. Bob the bouncer still stands guard at your exit. Your ex-girlfriend is still hard and cold against your back. And you breathe.

You wipe your eyes and walk off into your own hell on earth