The story so far:
Days bleed from veins of regret and need. Housed under the flesh of this nobody whose forgotten how to stand and be a man. Staring at a calendar hanging on an unfamiliar refrigerator, riddled with senseless numerals and pictures of woman’s posterior assets and big booming breast’s, I can’t produce even a speck of saliva to spit. Intoxication inflames absurdity and questionable memories blossom into this non-existence. Is she real? Did she ever exist at all?
Down the hall, into the bedroom I crawl.
Instead of playing big brother I should have taken her under the covers and shown her what it was like to have a lover who really loves her.
Now, legs no longer strong or aware of their purpose. Hand reassigned from the masturbation assembly line to the fine dining knife of a former friend.
Could this be the end my friends? Has it even really begun?
Dragging again from room to room, scraping blade, longing for shelter inside this weathered apartment cave. Rain pours from the ceilings and humidity coats every inch of anything that is something with a film of the Earths filth. Or dust. Or crushed cheerios and little bits of Ritz crackers.
I spot a stray blond hair on the floor and I tangle it into my fist, inhaling deeply for any trace of a scent that I’m not sure truly exists.
Days bleed from eyes that seek to be and to speak her name and to hold her image within them again. Darkness surrounds and pounds down around from the doors and windows and from the vacant sounds I hear with my ear pressed against the wall. She’s not there.
Was she ever **** there at all?
How many more? Wounds? Insertions? Complications? Distractions? Days and days of this madness and isolation and my mouth doesn’t even remember what she tastes like. My mouth doesn’t even remember how to speak. Again, my mouth doesn’t even remember what she tastes like. And this head is so full of grief that...
I SAID MY MOUTH DOESNT EVEN REMEMBER WHAT SHE TASTES LIKE.
And I’m not sure how much longer I can be. Me.
Without her I just don’t seem real.
Days bleed from the wounds of regret and need. And I wonder…if the gashes are pried open wider, will the days fly by any quicker?