Heaven

Rain is real. Soft pellets of cold water battering down on your skin, soaking through your feeble attempt at layers and chilling you to the bone. I sit in my car, and let the autumn freeze fill my car. the rain patters, and patters, and I take a breath that’s part nicotine part oxygen to try and calm my mind. The nausea lingers, the light headedness doesn’t provide me a moment to drive home. But it’s okay. I have the rain. It almost feels like a crime to wipe the drops from my windshield, as though they’re my protective cover from the horrors I know linger. But the rain doesnt last. Nothing much does. But for a moment it feels like heaven.

I wrote that a week and twenty sum cigarettes ago, and in a less self-victimizing mental state. Today, I am a six-pack in and a quarter of desert wine. Why? There is sadly no excuse. I suppose I look for one- I dig, until dirt is beneath my nails and staining my feet yellow for a reason. But there is not one, other than hatred. Hatred for so many people. So many things. Long buried. Long dead. My vape is dead- I have nicorette gum for this reason. I cannot be bothered. I want to break through my mothers window in search of more, more, more. I take a sip that stains my lips burgundy and burns my liver. But for a moment- after it settles and before it plasters me, it feels like heaven.

You cannot drink away the pain. It waits, like a dog with a bleeding maw at your door. It scratches and scratches until you’re left reeling with the aches, and the smell of stale liquor and stale sex and all that remains is that pain. Those scratches form thick ribbons across your body in the shape of regret that you cannot wipe away with the dregs of the makeup from the night before. You cannot cough up your tears so easily as you can the tobacco that lingers there. But, for a moment, it did feel like heaven.

After all, hell is the worst moment comprised.