In The Dead Of The Night

Onyx

I spent my whole life fighting my emotions only for them to start fighting me. How the fuck did I let this happen, how am I like this, what did I do to make my whole life crumple before my eyes?  How did fifteen years of effort amount to night. This is what I asked myself walking from the train station to the shelter I'm living in. It wasn't all that bad, I had a cigg to puff to ease the ever-present thought that I couldn't breathe. My lighter was hot pink with a switch cap, that was pretty cool and to top it off it still has lighter fluid. So it wasn't that bad, at least I was slowly dying in style. Therepy and taking meds finally cleared up enough shit in my mind where I was able to reflect on these things, kinda. Anyway I was home now, if that's what you could call it, I feel better calling it the latest shelter to harber me before they discharge me over some bullshit. I was patiently waiting the days before an issue bloomed and I was out on the street again back at square one. That has been the pattern anyway for the last five years. Shelter, bullshit problem, discharge, square one. Square one being no home, no friends, no family, no where to go, nowhere to be. Okay so it's not that simple, but complicating it hasn't seemed to work. Like I know there's more to the story it's just like my eyes can't see passed the the smog of it all. That's probably because I'm bipolar, the one thing I've learned from multiple hospitalizations is that you can't always trust what your eyes see or what stories your mind brews up.  I throw down my parliament-short cigarette when it's almost to the budd, I step on it and twist my foot from side to side just for good measure. I don't know but I've been doing that for as long as I can remember, my mom would smoke and throw down a Newport and I would run up the the budd and step on it then twist my foot from side to side. I was always scared that if I didn't put out the flames that it would continue to burn and set the whole world on fire. Maybe I missed some cigarettes or maybe it was a dumb effort because my whole world went up in flames anyway, and continues to burn as we speak. I ring the doorbell twice just to piss off the workers who stay here all day and night. Someone comes to the door and let's me in, I let the figned welcome fall into dead silence as I walk past the worker into my room. No one is really welcoming me home after a long day of god knows what, plus I hate small talk, and it never seems to go well when I start to open my big mouth to the people here. I just shut up and walk around docilely. Oh when I'm not outside on the side of the house raging, singing and rapping at the top of my lungs releasing the pian of my mother's death.