March 2009
1 post
small foxes
jesus.
i need a drink. i need twenty drinks. i need to drink, drink, drink until it all stops. i need to drink until i black out, and then i need to wake up and drink again and black out again, again, again. i need to still be awake at 4 a.m. with my head in the toilet or the sink or something. i need to be coughing and sweating and puking. i need to be retching and dry heaving and vomiting so...
February 2009
8 posts
monster.
a heavy sigh.
you fucking said it, man.
he says he doesn’t drink any more because it hurts. i say fuck that, i’ll drink twice as much to make up for his loss.
he shifts in his chair and leans slightly forward. i just keep looking at him like he’s on fire.
“what do you mean it hurts to drink? like, physically hurts? something wrong with your liver?”
i hope to god there is actually...
sink or sink.
he coughed and coughed and churned his insides with inhaled cigarette smoke. his throat was a chimney. his lungs were a vacuum. he lied on the couch, an island surrounded by a sea of crumpled tissues with bits and pieces of dried out lung buried inside.
“you don’t want to live like me,” he said with a sigh that turned every color gray.
i nodded and looked up and scanned the room. the once...
ghost.
she clung to his clothes as she fell to her knees, sobbing into his oxfords and polos. all color-coordinated, all neatly hung, all ironed and pressed to perfection, all never to be worn again.
she bawled and grabbed and pulled on every shirt in the world just trying to bring the rack down, trying to tear the earth from its axis. she pulled and pulled and soaked the unbuttoned sleeves with sweat...
alive in the wild.
motherfucker.
that’s all that i could manage to think.
mother.
fucker.
how did this happen?
they took the television. my brand new television. 50 inches of “holy shit that’s awesome” and it’s gone. and my cat’s head is wrapped up in the telephone cord. i don’t know if they did that or if my cat did that to himself. maybe he got tangled up trying...
from first to last.
my fingertips graced her pale, starry skin. my breath was july and her neck was the 4th. i kept my fingers circling her hips as i slowly swept my face across hers, our lips barely touching like strangers brushing shoulders. i swear to god her lips were like the simplest pastel drawing that no one had ever seen. and that made me want to add some reds and blues just to see what it would do.
i slid...
alexander hamilton.
it’s not that i’m lacking sympathy. it’s just that i just do not care. let me repeat that as to make sure it sinks in.
you.
mean.
nothing.
at.
all.
to.
me.
i really didn’t know how else to tell natalie. i wish to god there had been a more eloquent way for me to speak, like, if my words could have been flowery and flowing and full of imagery and figurative language that expressed...
saint valentine.
there are about a thousand sharks swimming inside my head right now. i keep feeding them, giving them bait in the form of blackouts and things we did when the lights were out. we were different people then. we were strangers by day, but when we lay ourselves down to sleep at night, it was like our bodies were waters that each had charted infinitely. i knew what it meant when her body got hot to...
madeline.
he said he gave up a long time ago, but i’m not too sure if i believe him.
my phone rang. i knew who it was.
before i could speak, a voice trembled and crept from the other end.
“i don’t want to be awake any more.”
“mark.”
silence.
“mark?”
“i don’t want to be awake. any more.”
his voice crawled and seeped like sludge pouring through telephone wires.
“are you tired? can’t you go to...