cast me down. { kousei }
Sept 30, 2017 19:28:53 GMT -5
Post by calla on Sept 30, 2017 19:28:53 GMT -5
c a d e .
It's always the same.
Day in and day out, living, breathing, just because it's something to do. Staring at the ceiling and counting the cracks, one, two, three, waiting for the hammer to fall. Hanging from a thread of lucidity, a technicolor dream. Blink and an hour's past. Roll over to the open window and the sky is dark.
Another day gone.
Poison in the back of my throat and addict on the tip of my tongue. Looking for a release but if you lose it and punch a brick wall you'll only end up with a broken hand. Punch a washed up junkie and you can at least make off with some of their shit. Sometimes you don't even have to get your hands dirty.
But life sure does suck when there's no other dumbasses around to steal from.
Waiting is teeth grinding and pins and needles, tracing patterns onto the brick walls and Ripred, why do dealers take so fucking long. The smug bastards, all cozy with their bags of party tricks, prancing around like they're got all the time in the world. People are dying out here.
Footsteps down a dark alley, hollow echoes and broken windows staring down like the eyes of disapproving mothers, and for fucks sake I'm just trying to survive here.
It's not my fault that lives fall apart so easily.
Picking cat hair from my sweater; one, two, three tries because fuck, my hands are s h a k i n g.
And I still remember how my mom would shake and shake and shake. How she'd talk real slow, words melting between her teeth, and how she'd already be passed out when I looked up from my crayon drawings on the floor. I remember the powder that always got used up too fast, how there were never enough pills in the bottle and how we'd burn our fingertips on the edge of a blunt before feeling any kind of buzz.
A trash can lid falls, crashing against cracked pavement, and being here makes my skin itch but it's not in the agenda to die today. Expectation better suit its ass up and meet reality because there's a restlessness in my veins and I'm not going anywhere yet.
A colour wheel spins in front of my eyes, blue skyline falling away to red fire like water turning to wine, purple bruises under tired eyes and we're faithless poetry in motion. Paint splatters on the sidewalk, painful graffiti and scuff marks like a sick mural. And I guess there was a fight here. Not surprising because there's been a fight everywhere around these parts. Broken bones and cat scratches and-
shit, Arlo's probably missing me.
I like to think that he actually cares, a weight on my chest pressing down like gravity, and he goes all rumbly until the tremors stop. Hopefully he's not getting into anything while I'm gone. Not that there's much left for him to find anymore.
A cheap lighter in my pocket and a wad of bills in my waistband, probably not enough to cover anything but my usual guy would cut me some slack if I went home with him. He'd share a hit there anyways and wouldn't charge for it, some little token of appreciation I guess. But that was before he blinked out of existence and I guess he's just face down in a ditch somewhere because it's obvious that that's how we'll all go.
Tiny shivers run through my bones and I don't know how much longer I can wait for this guy. Hand running across my face, through my hair and shake it off, alley cat.
Mom didn't raise no quitter.
