In the morning, standing five feet nine in one sock, I stood looking into the toilet bowl, at my reflection.
Slightly shuddering with the feel of the tip of my tongue sliding across scabbed bitten lips.
A forced smile brings about the sting of pain and metallic liquid.
Words whispered silently from mute lips, that brought me slumping against the wall, sliding down to the corpse cold tiles below.
The thoughts of speaking un-random syllables, brought a sharp breath of polluted air...and with the feel of my fading heart beat and movement of scarred hands. I in quiet inspections and muffled movements screamed with a imaginary voice that swallowed all things that meant a thing in this world.
Voices whisper back and forth, echoing off the bathroom walls, all saying the same thing, that what ever went down well inevitably come up.
With a slight grin I grab the bottle and make a promise that with one more pill I will be better tomorrow with the help of stolen bottles filled with cramps and crings.
With every swallow I hug the toilet for long hours everyday, adding to the different attributes to this illness of a sick mind.
With the drops of sweat down my spine, I stare marveled--far gone with the sight of my insides sinking into the water of a dirty shitter.
Sweaty hand prints on white painted walls, show the twisting and turning of clumsy hands that try to find a holding....crumbling I fall into a puddle of diluted nonsense.
A sharp sting sends shivers up the spinal cord, with a swallow I stare at the shot glass and think...just think.
Untranslated collection of words with a stunningly classic warp of eerieness has my brain making illustrated pictures of twisted humor.
Looking in the mirror I with a silly smirk just stare and try to not think.