Who Writes This Shit?

The drugs are fast and faster and faster still. I feel everything in this resin heart. So clear. So full of nothing. I should be drinking. I should be smoking. I should be dancing. I should be meeting beautiful men and breaking their hearts.

What do I have left to write about? A dead life? A tree that refuses to grow? A man who avoids me at every costs but can't seem to stay completely away? Where did you go, apache? Where did you go?

The drugs are talking now. It's not me. It's just my fingers moving over the keyboard trying to make words come out.  I probably shouldn't let them do all the talking. They tend to not make any sense and I regret them in the morning.

Stars fill the sky. Stars fill my mind. I hate the people I meet so much sometimes I want to reach up and pluck their eyes out of their big stupid heads. Sometimes I want to see flames where people used to be standing. What are you idiots staring at? If you knew what was really in here... if you really understood... you would not be so eager.

My kitten is mewing at the door way. She says 'Let us go to bed. Dawn will be here soon.' She's right. What are we waiting for anyway? The sunlight hates us and only the moon wants us here. Who writes this shit anyways?

Big Man

She took a long drag off her cigarette and tapped it against the ashtray. She exhaled blue smoke as she spoke:

"He was a drunk so he had sleep apnea. You know, where you stop breathing for a minute or two in your sleep and then start again. I'd lay there every night listening to him breath. When he'd stop, I'd wish with all my heart that he wouldn't start again. I felt like crying every time he'd cough and start snoring again."

She stared out the window. The smoke hung around her head like a halo in the filtered sunlight.

"You know, I can't say I'm sorry he's dead. I just can't."

Crowbar

I don't know if I should fuck you hard or just fuck you up.