Internal Pleasures

I saw the back of her head. The slight red hue of her hair looked exactly like my could-have-been lover. We were the only two people in the subway and I was sat and she was standing next to the door. I waited for her to turn so I could see her face. She turned her face and her profile looked as if it were drawn out, her skin to be appearing soft and smooth. My first instinct was to follow her. I knew the words I wanted to say to her but not in the right order and this kept me puzzled until I realized that this was her stop and that I would never see her again. I didn’t do anything. I let her go.

I was in the dark. I lied still in the dark in my room and as the curtains rippled letting in the faintest light through a slit in the window, I thought about what I could have done if I had not been weak. I could have killed her. Slit her throat. Something like that. Do I regret not doing it? I think so. There are only so few internal pleasures that can keep a man going and this was one of them. It fueled something darker and bigger than what my soul could handle. Of course, I live on regret. That was part of the agreement of being a wuss. Did anyone look at me think and think that I am capable of doing anything? My supple body, with its bones protruding, hell, I think no one thought anything about me. I reminded myself of how relaxing it is to think these awful, awful things.

I laughed softly to myself, thinking, was this it? I went to the diner on the corner of my street and watched all of these characters. Men talking about their sons during lunch, how they were doing great in college or at their work, no one had a proper response to what if they had a son like me. I had to make a decision. I left the diner and went up to my room and started to write. I wrote and nothing good came out and then I sulked in bed.

Women are like the ventriloquist and I am the puppet.

There were very few things I enjoyed doing while I was sober. The only thing an addict does when he’s sober is think about how to get high, and everything was the precursor to getting high. Non-junk related activities are only there so you can get to junk later.

It’s a relief when the stubborn friction between people and I pops out as they realize I am not like them at all and slowly distance themselves.

I would argue that being confused is fair for all the trouble I have caused.

I’m back out on the street and I don’t care anymore.