There is no truth in our lungs
The deaf may now rest
there is no love on our tongues
I can hear among the best

Vodka

“Hey. So guess what has really been on my mind a lot as of late. Go ahead and guess.”
“Her?”
“Well. Yes, of course. But I was going to say marriage, it’s become something I really want to happen to me some day. Obviously no time soon, I mean it can’t really since I’m single.”
“Yeah. I know what you’re talking about. Trust me.”
This went on for sometime just idle conversing back and forth between two friends discussing ideal wedding plans, potential employment opportunities, school, and music. The reminders of his hometown began to annoy him like it usually did after he thought about it too much however.
“I'm going to go outside and chain smoke whilst staring at the street in which I live on. So. Take care.”
“You too.”
He slid his bare feet into a pair of slippers that did not belong to him and tried his best to exit out the back door of the house, realizing how much more difficult everything is when you’re trying to do it without making noise. After managing to get outside without causing too much of a disturbance he slipped a filtered cigarette into his mouth, pulling out his white lighter which would not work after no less than twenty attempts.
“God damn this thing. Is there anything out here I could use to light a cigarette?”
There wasn’t. So after a silent search and rescue for a working lighter inside he was out in the below freezing weather again, standing at the end of the driveway inhaling deeply. The streetlights reflected off of the snow making it much brighter than it should be for one thirty in the morning. There was no sound of human life, not even cars in the distance. He was cold. He was thinking about Her.
The night before the Halloween party came to his mind.
He was planning on going to the party as a Russian, so he had on hand a fifth of Gordon’s vodka. He had already taken a few swigs of the bitter water with Her earlier in the night out at a friend’s bonfire. They all sat in a row, staring into the fire. They passed around a joint with something in it that tasted too sweet to be weed, but it got the job done. The time approached for them to leave, and after some reassuring that he was in fact good enough to drive they left in a good demeanor. Down the highway they went, him holding Her hand while making geometric shapes with his finger.
“I love you.”
He always felt like adding “too” onto the end of the statement makes it sound like you’re saying it because you have to now that they have said it.
“I love you.”
He dropped Her off and watched Her walk all the way to Her door and didn’t leave until She was inside.
Back at his father’s house he was no longer buzzed from the fake weed so he decided a few more swigs were in order while he vacantly surfed the Internet. She was online. Their Internet conversations usually consisted of the same elements.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Tell me a secret.”
But tonight they consisted of something much less fluff than usual.
“Who is this girl?”
“she’s no one. I follow her blog.”
The blog in question contained nude pictures of its owner, She discovered after a few minutes. An argument ensued and there is nothing more frustrating than arguing via Internet. He started sipping the Vodka slowly at first while the argument was still around statements like “Is this what you want?” and “You know you’re the only person I want to be with”. But by the time statements like “I have only given you the best” and “maybe I should just kill myself then, is that what you want?” entered he was drinking from it continuously, no longer feeling any burning from it.
“I’m going to call you.”
“Ok”
And it continued with much more ease relaying hateful and hurtful things more directly. In one hand he held his phone to his ear and the other the jug of vodka to his mouth, only breaking from drinking to mutter poorly thought out defensive replies.
“I’ve been drinking this whole time by the way, just so you know.”
“How much?”
“Most of it.”
He found himself holding that box cutter, like it always found its way into his hand when he was least expecting it. Now dragging it across his left fore arm. He was right handed.
“The blood looks so magnificent. I hope I don’t get any on the carpet though.”
“What?! Do not cut yourself, I’m sorry.”
“Too late. It’s ok though.”
An empty bottle and a box cutter sat on his desk while he continued to cry and mutter apologies into the phone. This went on for a while until they both felt reassured that the other was stable.
“Listen, I’m sorry. We definitely need to talk about this tomorrow though. I’m going to be sick right now though.”
“Ok, are you going to be alright?”
“Maybe.”
That night ended with him blacking out. The next day She and Him got together and talked things over, they got stronger from it and also had a few more scars.
All this came back to him at the end of his mother’s driveway in the cold January night, smoking and staring at nothing.

Our distant bodies lie on the shore together
As we drift slowly apart within the sea

I've been riding this downward spiral for sometime now.
I still haven't hit bottom yet.
I've never fallen asleep easily.
I would rather be passing out.

Waking up on this lonesome train
I wonder how I have gotten here
Aching in my head, persistent pain
buckling under the constant fear

Those times and cities have passed
Still I cling to those brief glimpses
What is to come is a shadow cast
ill and uncertain

Kurt Vonnegut, Combat boots, Prose, The Smashing Pumpkins, Black, Viola, Shared Poetry, Paintings, Nirvana, 11/13, Clove Cigarettes, paranoia.

I remember. I remember when it was Me comforting You after a good cry.

Walking down stairs is hard for me because I'm always weak in the knees from my former love/hate relationship with running in highschool. Walking down stairs reminds me of how I was once capable of greater distance.

Two dollars a pill. That’s what Evan told me the night before via text message. He said he had one milligram pills of Kolonopin, when I asked if he had anything on hand besides bud because I wanted to try a different kind of high. Id bought weed from Evan a few times now and it had been so-so stuff, but on the upside he was a white guy.
Today I was meeting him at some office supply store, because he was still working. I pulled up in my blue Dodge Caravan with the ten dollars readily available in my front pocket. That would get me five pills today. I hear they’re similar to Xanax. After entering the store I follow him all the way to the back, where he places a baggy of green pills on a shelf and I hand him the cash.
Back in my van I swallow two pills and drive to my friends apartment. They’re not there. I flip on the TV set and wait. And wait. I feel about normal, maybe about as high when you’re around people who are smoking weed. I decided to swallow two more and chewed one up. Still nothing.
What was it Evan had said earlier? “About one and a half of those will be good. That’s weird. I hope these aren’t bunk. I’m thinking of this while pulling up to pick up Jenny. I think.
Darkness.
I find myself driving and its much darker outside and Jenny is no longer with me. Instead a few of my friends are riding with and I think I’m driving to a liquor store.
“Hey guys where are we going again?”
“Store bro. 4Lokos.”
“Oh yeah.”
4Lokos. Downed. Video Games. Vomiting. Second trip to the Liquor store. Beer. Ride home. Once the caffeinated alcohol hit my system I didn’t have a chance of making heads or tails of any situation.
Next thing I know I’m misplacing my keys and riding in the passenger seat of my van while someone else drives me home. I feel bad for burdening whoever it is that is driving me now, I try to warn them of the oddities my van has. I don’t think they got it.
I’m now tying two belts together and I notice they’re both white and haven’t been worn in a while. I’m in my room as far as I can tell at my dad’s house. Of the two belts tied together I’m tying on side into a large knot so when I drape it over the door and close it, it will stay put. I’m watching myself positioning my computer so the camera on it can show the people the chat room that I am in fact serious.
I’m moving my rolling chair over by the closet door. Images of Jenny come to mind and I say that I’m sorry while draping the makeshift noose around my neck. Gingerly tightening it and putting the buckle at the back of my neck so it doesn’t pinch me. Deep breathing. “I’m sorry.” Kicking the chair out from under was easy, it rolled nicely to an unsafe distance so it couldn’t be used for leverage. Suffocation. Blurred vision. No note? Choking noises. Oh god there are people watching this online aren’t there? “Yep. You’re the one who entered the chat room saying you were gonna off on cam.” I hear whispered in my head. This fucking sucks. Time isn’t even moving one frame at a time. Just work past it and it’ll be over soon, like a cross-country race. Goddamnit. My toes are barely touching the ground but it’s enough to allow me to take my hands off my throat to grab the doorknob. Vision is black. Air. Breathe in for the first time.
I remove the makeshift noose from my neck while walking over to my computer. Twenty people just watched my suicide attempt. One or two stating things like “do it faggot” while the rest apparently tried talking me out of it. Once again I find myself discovering what’s happening to me instead of thinking about it as I take a razor in my right hand and drag it along my forearm at least eight times. The blood coming from my arm is very pretty, almost fake looking. I do this in front of the camera, admitting defeat.
Someone in the chat room says to me, “I used to cut myself too, it helps. Do you have someone to call to talk to?”
“Yeah.”
I close the computer.
Dial chases number.
“Hey. I hope I’m not bothering you or anything. But. I just tried killing myself.”

"Drinking alone is a sign that you have a problem." This sentence is still fresh in my brain from the program i went through a month or so ago. At the time I did everything I could to try and deny this. But now, my head aches. My body yearns for comfort. You don't want to go where I went. I don't want you to lose control.

Directed at no one and everyone

When you finally get around to biting the bullet, do me a favor and make sure it exits the back of your skull.

Just a New Years story

Laughter and sounds of life came from downstairs and awoke Mike from his drunken sleep. It was the kind of sleep so deep he could tell he would snore very loudly judging by his breathing as he stumbled into unconsciousness the night before.
Mike carelessly grabbed for his phone, which was barely in reach of the bed, causing him to almost tumble out of it. No messages, and the day was already half over. “Fuck.” He mumbled while scrounging up clothes to wear for the drive up north. He did not have a headache like he suspected he would, but the day still felt overwhelmingly heavy to him.
Mike walked down the hall to the bathroom hearing much more clearly the voices coming from downstairs but not actually seeing anyone. Mike let the hot water hit the back of his neck and shoulders, last night started to come back to him in bits like a dream a does.
“So what should we get”, Mike asked for the countless time in the last ten minutes. He, Tommy, James, and Mark had gone through the leftover beer from last night in about twenty minutes. Michelob Ultra. They liked the slim cans.
“Well I don’t know what we’d do with leftover liquor so how about we just get more beer? I mean I don’t have any money, so it’s not my call.” Said Tommy, twitching slightly while chain smoking.
“Hey. Snake. You drinking tonight?” Mike said on the border of slurring his words.
“Maybe.” Was the answer Snake gave them and had been giving the entire night and would continue to give.
“Alright, that’s cool. I was just trying to get it straight how much alcohol we’d need and how many people contributing there wou-”
James cut him off saying, “dude, I just don’t like tequila man. I’m cool with whatever.”
They ended up getting bottles of Coors light. Mike specified, “If we get beer I prefer it in a bottle. I just like it better.” That being the only explanation.
Earlier in the night Mike pulled up to James’ house where he picked him and Tommy up.
“You hear those fireworks man?” said Tommy from the backseat.
“Yeah dude. You can see them right there. Have you guys been drinking or smoking weed already?”
“Nah man. Why have you?” James said from the passenger seat.
“Nah, just wondering.” mike answered from the drivers seat, barely containing his impatience to start drinking while pounding the steering wheel in unison with the beat of the song that played on the radio. It was Black Cadillacs by Modest Mouse, which surprised them all it was being played on a radio station.
“Is Snake coming tonight?” Mike asked driving towards Tommy’s house. “Yeah. But his dad scared him into not drinking.” Mike wasn’t sure who answered him. Whatever.
“Number nine!” Mike exclaimed to the room while opening his beer. “Oh dude” He continued on “I totally have some firecrackers in my van.” Which led to them lighting the wicks with their cigarettes, which they didn’t bother to remove from their mouths. Burning an eyeball didn’t occur to anyone nor did it matter to them at that moment.
After a Drunken hand of euchre and a few glasses of water, Mike was ready to drive.
“How did I get back?” Mike thought to himself. “Oh well. I’m here now.” He answered apathetically sitting and drinking a glass of orange juice, declining biscuits and gravy his friend’s mother had made. He said goodbye to her and that was about it.
He was on the road, alone. That’s how he liked driving long distances, especially in this situation. “Sober on the first of the year. Lets see how long I can go.” Mike stopped before crossing the border to Wisconsin, getting some food, enduring glares from strangers, pretending to check his phone.
Back on the road, another hour and a half to go, he wistfully thought to himself, “Maybe I’ll start going to church again. Being a Christian would be nice.”

"I had it all planned out in my head, but I just can't bring myself to finish it."
"Maybe that's the problem. You have preconceived notions of how your story should be, so whatever you do isn't going to match your ideal story."
"Maybe."
"Come on Riley, this always happens. You have an idea for a story, you get half way through it and never finish it."
"Fuck you Mike, I'll eventually finish that novel. And that's not the point, It's just a short story this time. Maybe I should go back through it and write it in first person instead of third. I hate being that omnipotent, godlike being, who just narrates. First person is easier for the reader to relate to the story, like a first hand tale being told over coffee."
"Yeah. You've written fine in third person before though, Like that one about you driving a delivery out to that bar and then calling Anne."
"Jenny. Her name is Jenny, Mike. You fucking know that, you're me."
"Ha yeah. Lets go get a beer, I think there's one in the fridge."
"You know I can't do that man, I've made it four days. Fuck off."
"And today is the most you've ever talked to me, And yesterday had been the most as of yesterday. Hahaha You are getting lonely aren't you?"
"Yes."

I like to sit near the window in the cafe and watch people walk by, wondering if I knew them if i could ever love them. What kind of habits and oddities do these people have? Would they ever love me back? Could anyone love me back? Where is their coat, aren't they cold? Where have they been, where are they going? these things concern me as I drink my coffee in silence. The girl with the dreadlocks and plugs is working again. she asked me how my day was going but I couldn't understand her the first two times. She's kind of over weight so it doesn't matter or worry me. I leave and still had twenty minutes on the meter.

"I don't love me. And that's how I understand why you don't either."
-Anonymous