Unidentified.

Ignored. Ignored for screens.

Feel the tears, hot and wet, down the cheek, the chin, the slope of the neck.

Outside. Dusk. Sapphire skies, plumes of grey clouds. Kick the bag of cans. Like music. 

Grab the beer.

No goodbyes.

Slam the door. Scream. Drive. Scream more. No one can hear. 

Light the cigarette, open the beer. Feel the panic. Feel the panic anyway. 

Remember. 

There’s a pounding in the skull. An ache in the legs. Muscles feel weak. 

Feel the loss of self.

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Down in the gutter.

It’s always a little disappointing when someone asks I am and they immediately disregard what I’ve said and delve into a whole spiel about their own misfortunes, in this case, something I’ve been hearing about for a long time. To me, the solution is simple.

The terrible rap music pulsates against my eardrums, gyrates in my skull. It is not fitting for my defeated and agitated mood and I’m tempted to change it but what would be the point? It’s only four more minutes out of…

I hear the word “boyfriend,” in a vapid attempt to relate to my expression of loneliness and dissatisfaction, and I literally roll my eyes to the roof of the car.

It’s a good thing that it’s dark outside.

“He’s a bum,” I want to say. She’s said it herself. I’ve agreed. But I still want to say those exact words in a bitter yet confident tone. I don’t want to say it to be cruel. I want to say it because I know she can do better.

Because, honestly, he’s like all those empty beer cans he’s probably recycled for five cents apiece.

I know this person. I know him very well. I know his manipulations and pathetic attachments and inability to help himself, or perhaps, his lack of desire to help himself. I know he will drag himself into the ground, and, if she’s not careful, she will be dragged down with him.

As she said, “I put up with everything.”