The Fourth Year

1am

I hate the sound of silence after glass shatters. I hate the emptiness it leaves hanging in the air. I hate the thought of tiny shards cutting the soles of barefooted children later in the morning. I hate the quiet, I hate it so much.

I want to be the kind of destructive drunk that makes my presence known. I'll break the bottles after I've emptied them, and scream at the morning stars. I'll cuss at air, and fill the void with ruckus. I'll sling shots and hurdle rocks at the street light. Then I'll yell at the moon for being dim.

I'd hate to be the kind of drunk that breaks bottles, and then shuts up. I'll never leave the people indoors wondering what's going on. I'll never let the silence linger again, promptly after I disturb it.

I have more respect for the quiet. If I choose to make noise, best believe it'll be loud.