The pain of waking up to that feeling that I wish I never had. (woken up) I could drink a thousand cups of tea, a million teaspoons of Pepto-Bismol, and my stomach would still turn inside-out. The gun could lay beside me and my hands would shake the bullets out between my fingers. You could give me a glass of warm milk and a cigarette. Feed me a small meal and it will be forced out of my throat within twenty minutes. I WANT THE WORLD TO KNOW MY PAIN. But I would be happy if only one person understood. I wish it was her. She holds me when I shake. She pinches my skin when it crawls. She lies next to me in the morning when no one else is there, to tell me she loves me. When I feel bad she makes me feel worse.
I can see my ribs. I don’t sleep I nod. I don’t nod, I dream. I don’t dream, I dream all of my fears. NIGHTMARES. I wake up sweating. The only time I scream. The gun never left under the pillow. No safety. Loaded clip. Whole box of shells in the closet. Don’t worry, no one knows.
I hid in the bathroom for several reasons. Hide the needles, they’re coming. I HEAR THEM. HIDE IT. I SEE THEM. I’m shaking. My heart beats and makes a clicking noise in my throat. Ah… my throat. It’s coming again. Nothing will come out. It tastes sour. It’s slimy and sticks to the side of the toilet and my lip. HEARTBURN. My arm is sore and numb. I have so much pain. No one cares. No one knows I’m here. No one would know if I died here. Where is the gun? How can I get it now? They’re out there. They’re everywhere. Behind me in the rearview mirror. Look forward, You’re swerving. Behind the trees in the shadows. They’re lurking. Do I still have tea? Pepto-Bismol? Stool softener doesn’t work. It’s been four weeks. When it happens I cry and bleed. When it happens I feel relieved. Where are the little green pills? After I cry and bleed, they sing me to sleep. To nod. To dream. To dream fears. NIGHTMARES.
Endless VHS animated repeats. I have it memorized. It’s all we have. She’s gone half the time. Drinking wine. Some Italian White Zinfandel. Not really a friend of mine. I prefer red. I prefer brown. I prefer intravenous consumption. I prefer it now. Do we still have honey? Honey for my tea? My stomach. It hurts. It’s empty. I can see. All my ribs. All my muscles. I’m pathetically sexy. Like Kate Moss. The pathetic epitome. Poster child. Junky.
Where is she? Not sleeping with me. Sneaking through doors. SNEAKING WHORES. We had sex on her husband’s bed. She bent over. Gave me… sugar instead of honey could work. Look in the cupboard. All I see is the red wine vinegar. It stings my arm. But it’s all I have. It stings. It stinks. My knees hit the cold tiles. Can’t breathe. Sour tasting dry heave. The pain. My ribs. It hurts. It’s sour. The gun. They’re here. Everywhere. I hear. I see. Blood. Need tea. Tums. Pepto-Bismol. They’re going. They’re coming. They’re waiting. For me. Jon. Darlene. They’re waiting. For me…
I should’ve been there. Only after. In tears. I wondered and wished. I asked the skies why. GOD. He used his toe to pull the trigger. Shotgun to my head. She hung herself on monkey bars. I’m hanging. I’m falling. I’m feeling half dead. I hear them outside. Laughing. Drunk. Who is the new stranger she brings to bed? I once fell asleep between her legs. She loves Italian wine. WHORE. These cats never get fed. If it wasn’t for me her cats would be dead. Where is that tea? The honey is gone. The sugar is gone. No Pepto-Bismol. No pills or no Tums. Why is she calling? What does she want? Just let it ring. The voices won’t stop. I can hear them outside. They’re after my gun. It’s under the pillow. They know, they’re not dumb. The shells are in the closet. She was never there. To pinch me when I’m crawling. To take away my fear. She was never there. To hold me as I shook. To tell me she still loves me. God, I’m so scared.