BoozeRat

"Fuck your actions!" She whispered gazing down at the spot on the carpet where a living room bonfire had fused the threads together. "I wanna hear your words..." "what do you want me to say?" "That's just the problem..." I can hear the trace of a sob as a cloud of smoke caresses her forehead before drifting to the walls to see how this will end. "What is?" "Do you remember when I told you to pull over so we could look at the stars?..." I remember a dry wind and a sense of loss. why haven't I done this before? "...all that wonder and nothing to say." And she wants a response but she's not waiting and she growls to her feet to keep from

Pause. A deep breath and a sip of liquor makes a manual that tells you how to achieve nothing. A break to break down your thinking. A chance to pick apart every brick of ours and inspect it so that we know every one is made of dust. But Homes can be made of mud so you spit until your lips crack and you stir everything together, hoping you have enough in you to maybe make a doorway that will lead somewhere else.

I can't write with the music on because the scratch of the pen is a shrieking of a hundred thoughts that won't be ignored. "Stop listening to other people's ideas!" and I open the cell for them. They scramble out emaciated and thirsty and looking a little like rats. Suddenly one of them steps forward, just fresher than the rest. "We could have been something..." I realize it's too late for them or for me and I order that one shot. Then I turn the music back on.

It has no rhyme. Bad meter. It's short and good it's over. Here's your goddamned song.

Your lovley eyes are rimmed with red as you sit by a pillar crying in the Station. Alone. The breathy stink of poverty slinks from by the chairs and you wonder if this is how love should end. Downtown seems shining with the bustle of the people covering up the dinge that creeps like a hunter grabbing the unfortunate. After all the others leave they stay, the sleep, and tthey occasionally wonder why you're here with your lovely eyes rimmed with red as you sit by a pillar crying in the Station. Alone.

The sun shines scalding. It's Sunday and she's in the bed sleeping restless. She's cried more tears than drank water and this reprieve from racking sobs must feel like the breeze tickling her legs as they peer from under a tossed blanket. But the breeze will fade and the fan doesn't work and comfort is hard to come by in summer. It's about a man. It always is. It's about young love and manipulation and August sweat and how 30 or 3000 miles won't make a difference. But right now, it's about that errant beauty that comes with sleep.

Tell me your hopes and dreams whispered softly like linens under the stars and over a bottle. We can be brutally honest. The flickering parking lot lights reminds me that you're going home where there are fireflies. There's hesitance behind your smile dancing softly like cigarette smoke. I wish you'd change your mind... My words are a car horn, the last desperate act of someone who isn't going anywhere.

This is the second time I've waited for my brother. While my roommate is fingerfucking downstairs because she's too afraid to take it any further. That's a lie. But I'm a monster with calloused hands and a heart made of the same steel that my broken down truck is. I wish I could fix it.