It is Tuesday night or
Wednesday morning or
some ungodly othersinning hour. I don't know.

Lying on rough bed sheets, shoulders slumped and hanging hands, my eyes are open despite the hiccups and shallow breaths. I am bottle-strewn, burning cigarette-spliff cliché. I smell like two days of missed showers and four nights of seesawing sanity, the way I inhale and implode, the way we were despite ourselves.

My ceiling spins and rises and crashes around me but I am still lost wreckage at sea, I am still crying like a dumb bitch. And these tears are empty rooms, locked doors and probably rusting treasure or some other metaphor for nothing. They rise from my sticks-&-stones-&-crooked-bare-bones as I bring my knees to my chest and collapse into myself. All I can do these days is cave in.

A siren goes off in the distance, in another world two blocks down but I know it's nothing important because, how can it be?
How can it be that the moon still wanes and that Time (that bitch, that heartless, heartless bitch) won't look back?
She won't look back at me. Not even a glance.

And how can it be that I'm still waking up late every morning, sand on the floor, black in my belly and it is Tuesday. It is Wednesday. It is I don't know. I just don't know. But I am dreamless, exhausted and you're gone. You are...not with us. Not with me. Never with me. Ever again.

"But why..."

It's quiet now and for some reason, some stupid insane reason like the way we were despite the universe, despite everything, I have memories of how to laugh. Real laugh. The kind that ruptures your insides and shakes the world around you to nothing but grey colored dust; non-stick glitter for these too white walls.

But when I try to laugh like this, to laugh this internal bleeding kind of laugh, my throat dries up and falls away so I start coughing and my eyes start watering again and my nose starts running and I am fetal positioned, with empty, pathetic, plastic grief wetting my lips and this is awkward and ugly and depressing as fuck and I just...I don't know.
I don't know anymore.

For my friends, my dead friends.
It is insignificant but it is all that I can give.

R.I.P, you two.

© Deborah M. (Deefective) 2007-2011 (id: 571297).
Protected under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 Unported License; link available via my profile.