"You hemorrhage feelings like there's something still there." He growls at me, his words coming out in faded strings of smoke, the cigarette laced between his lips. I can see the vivid colors seeping through his teeth, like blue oceans, and blue lips, and cancer, the gypsies and hallucinations curling between my irises.

"It's hard," I say, smudging my fingers between the cool fabric of my shirt, along my chest, "being so empty, I'm just trying to feel alive, nobody likes zombies." My voice twists in my throat, mourning over the emptiness and I swallow down the small bottle of gin woven around my tiny fingers, the flavor biting inside my mouth.

He laughs—ugly—like harpies screeching at his lungs and cutting-edge, a big exhale of prozacs and cyanide flowing through the air, making my body wince. "There's a difference," he pauses for a moment, like thinking things and looks at me with those wide kaleidoscope eyes, like heroin and addictions and I'm seeing bruised colors and lies, bursting across my tangled veins and his face. The sky's starting to get hazy, grey and sinking with silver bullets, smashing up against my pale skin, "between existence and actually living." The cars shriek beside us, headlights and metal smashing together, the glass stained with crooked memories, if they have any. Families and hopes and dreams and lives, my god, if only. My feet run against the rough pavement, head held back, stretched across the buzzing streetlight, the slick paint cold around my neck. The sound of screams and cellphones burn between my ears and I laugh, choking down the fear slipping between my lungs. Death shouldn't be a thing to be scared of.

"The world's a scary place though," I conclude, my fingers trembling on the small piece of paper pressed between my lap, the news burned on in fizzling letters, smearing across the sheet. They never tell you the truth you know, always making everything sound a little better then it is, because sometimes lies are the only things that keep us 'stable'. He turns his head away from me, the bristles of his brown hair shivering along his skull and I feel the rejection clawing inside me, again and again. "I'm living a masquerade because I think it's the only thing I have left."

an. no, this doesn't make much sense.