This one is just a sliver on the dark side. It’s an excerpt from a longer project I’ve been tossing around my head. Still needs editing.
The worst part about a personal implosion isn’t the physical act of destruction. It’s not the red eyes or the clenched fists with pale knuckles or the sharpened, erect teeth. It’s not about the snow globe of vivid colors leaking oil in blurred slop or the soft light shining through chandeliers that cartwheel like carnival performers past the pink bulb of your nose. It’s not the self-refilling glass of cool tinkling booze that slides all too quickly down your throat because the tumbler blisters your fingertips. It’s not even about the inevitable prostration and humbled retching because God hates you—he does hate you—dry heaving to the rumbling brown bass tones of hip hop music while wrapped in the comforting glow of hollow fluorescence, sweating out pharmaceuticals in some long-forsaken stinking stable where bored men have smeared orphaned phone numbers on the walls in their own feces and seminal fluids. It’s not about the garbled shouting and the airborne saliva and the currency sliding out of your wallet like the world is a trapeze act constructed of frictionless materials or getting slammed fistwise in the face over unremembered slights. It’s not about waking up broke and broken and alone, covered like a newborn in a tacky sheen of ambiguous bodily fluids, lying fetal in the mildewed tub of your own darkened bathroom. It’s not about vomiting blood or cutting yourself or drawing the blinds and locking away your own quivering human mass from the faces and voices that, if life were fair, would all be gulped down in a sort of profane peristalsis into some oblivious colon, all to clear more space for your own loathing. It’s not about straightening a bent cigarette with swollen fingers or groping along the floor for your lost spectacles, all while pondering in which cardinal direction your missing pants might have flown.
It’s not even about wanting to die.
It’s about having to live.