Who knows, no names this time

His room is a disaster, a total reflection of his immaturity and inability to set things straight in his life. Square inch plastic bags and burned cigarettes scatter the floor. His piles of clothes, an ever shifting tide of cotton colors. Computer wires snake across the carpet, a broken stereo sits dusty next to the bed, the bed is on the floor. Everything is on the floor, pushed to the edge, shoved against the wall to make foot space for all the strange love that comes and goes. He comes home with different shadows every night hoping one of them is what he’s looking for in the morning. He’s the only one who knows the path to the light, that damn floor lamp, making him open his eyes to what he’s let in, the creaturestranger about to use him. He flips the switch, his vision and senses adjust to not only the light, but the things it exposes. He sees a zit on his chin, his hair is thinner than it looked on the dancefloor. He doesn’t smile, he just puts his hands over his eyes. “Im SO drunk” the shadow says.

This is gonna be a piece of cake. 

He wakes up in the middle of the night, the light was turned off shortly after it illuminated the mess. It’s dark now, really dark, the way he likes it. When its dark, he doesn’t have to worry about the condom they didnt use, or the taste of the man’s mouth, the foul smell of cocaine on his breath. He slips his feet through the clothing making his way towards the door to find the knob. He shuts the door quietly and locks himself in the bathroom, another light to turn on. But at this hour, in this place…he wants the light on, he needs it bright as can be. He flips the switch and looks in the mirror. His eyes are glossy, and his cheeks have swelled in a little, he looks unkempt. He looks like he hasnt eaten in days, with his ribs rippling across his chest. He leans in close to his reflection and sees nothing, moreso…he feels nothing. He feels nothing for the stranger sprawled greedily across his mattress. He feels nothing for the acts he’s committed, the way he carries himself. And oh how he carries himself, so clumsily, so inebriated across the dancefloor, up the stairs, in the shower. He always has a twinge of apathy marking his movements.
And then the voices fade in…
All the love he’s taken from the people he loved. The voices of his friends that gave up, the voice of his mother encouranging him to seek help, to seek happiness. He believes that his happiness is not his own, it must be given to him by others. Incapable of bringing the world to its knees, he finds comfort in getting on his knees to satisfy the world. He wants to be epic, he wants to be revered, he wants to be blessed and scott-free. But instead, he sits on the toilet and weeps. He cries himself to sleep on the floor of the bathroom, leaving the creaturestranger alone in his bed. Tonight, he perfers the cold tile of the bathroom floor to his bed made warm by the semen that festers inside him.

The sun seeps through the thin lines of the edges he forgot to cover on the window, its gotten warmer since he passed out. The sun is rising, and with it he gets up. He reaches for the bathroom counter and pulls himself up slower than he raised his eyes at the boy on the dancefloor the night before. This isnt what he wants, this isnt what he needs, he thinks.
He opens his bedroom door to find an empty bed. A single sheet of paper lies atop the folds and volumes of his comforter. “You were wild last night, dont know where you disappeared to, but thanks for the good time. See you around”
See him around where? This was simply the flavor of the week, another sack of skin to sustian the warmth that the whisky induced earlier that evening.

He crawls into bed and sleeps until the sunsets, his phone rings. “I have your stuff, you still want it?”

“yes, please”

He’s exhausted still, but wants to catch another glance and try another flavor from a shiny, pink, minispoon…just enough to know what it tastes like, but it never tastes as good as his favorite flavor.

he hangs up the phone and lays back down. a long sigh presses itself through his lungs in his chest, up through his throat and pours slowly out of his mouth

He still feels nothing, he still has nothing worth fighting for.
All the flavors he has tried end up leaving him with a dripping, pastey mouth.

But he’ll just go to the bathroom and wash his mouth out with soap.
better than the taste of last night.

4 responses to “Who knows, no names this time

  1. If you know all this, in time, you’ll refine your choices. You’ll lose your taste for the bad ones and find the right ones more interesting.
    You have been given a gift. Don’t stop.

  2. Awe Mom’s do know best

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