By Aundréa Murray
Quarter blazing through my nostrils. Triple-layer shots burning down my throat. Seeing double. Feeling alone. Searching for the ground until my face feels it. Cold tiles sooth my cheeks and for one, monumental moment, I feel alive. Face-up, I face death through blurred eyes, slurred words and colliding thoughts. Rollin’ so hard, got my brain surging vibrations down my spine; I can feel it at my tailbone. Bone. Bone. Bone. The word replays in my head and so does the memory I have of you blowing spit and sin between my slit and up my slot until you hit its jackpot. As my pussy pounds faster than my heart, the THC drenched in my blood makes S.E.X the only letters my crossed eyes can make out behind these closed eyelids. As text messages bedome more ans mpre difficultt to understa, I step out of Marvin’s manipulating room and close his many non-drunk-proof applications. No one would understand these thoughts anyway. These thoughts of peanut butter with pickles, becoming a rapper, wrist-slitting, flying, unprotected sex, making grown men cry, a better life would go over the heads of those under the influence of societal normality. Wiping tears off of my vomit-stained face, I take one more shot and a few more hits. Psychotics mixed with narcotics chased by dreams and drowned by sorrows; I’m gone.