[ smoke III . ] _literary piece/random thoughts

i wrote this earlier this week.. and i decided to throw it in my blog today…

[ smoke III .]

theres nothing like waking up in the morning, wandering why you are groggier and floppier than usual. augh, im still drunk. i can smell it in my hair. it still reeks of the beer-slick, bra-dangling bar. i curl up, hoping to pass out. the pillow is moist and i cant tell if i drooled or if i cried in my sleep. either or…

ew.

boo on emotional-crippling-trauma

. punch it in the face.

i converse with my ‘brother’ via text messages. the liquor-sleep is draining away and i remember my reason for drinking in the first place. until the past few days i never really, really had a reason to start boozing in the first place. no matter what kind of good or shitty vodka i put in my system, it wont save my family. my home has slipped away through the cracks of my fingers… but the house still stands. im sure if i was there, i would be able to place my palm against the cold, firm wall, and it would have been the same wall i hid behind when i was five. the home is spewing flames, a colorless fire with an ‘A’ carved in its chest. i struggle to take people’s hands in mine, and nurse them through their uneasy steps. fingers are pointing. people are taking sides. the world is falling apart. it feels like being picked last for dodgeball. it feels like being the misplaced crayon. it feels like the blame for killing the classroom hamster, mister fluffy. it sucks.

everything sounds damien rice-y.

im glad i didnt ask him to stay in the car while i sobered up last night. in a small, but emotional moment, i was vulnerable and i wanted to be held by him; but he was already working on his next project who was sitting on his lap. he walked me to my car and hugged me goodbye. he offered to help me back home but who am i to cock-block. he asked me to text him when i got back and we parted ways.. two emotionally scarred geminis dealing with their traumas in different ways. hes whoring it out as if he had a boo-boo and sex was a band aid. im avoiding boys as if they were a diarrhea-inducing. i think ill die a born-again virgin, that would be totally fine with me.

i hop out of bed. the floor is cold and slippery under my feet. i know im still sleepy because i grab my clothes for today and i change in the living room. i thought i just, juuust paid my bills. infomercial personalities are shit-spewing chatterboxes stuck on repeat. and i cant stand what comes out of the fox new’s-boneheads….her malibu lipstick is jarring. their words are nails in my ears. i scramble for the remote. the oatmeal in the microwave is taking its sweet, goddamn time.

its going to be a long day.