there are people filled up to their eyes in stars, people with daisies for fingers that bring sweetness and color to everything they touch. there are people that have sunrises in their feet and when they move their gracefulness is overwhelming. these are the people with permanently happy roses coloring their cheeks, and wings on their backs that keep them afloat.
but there are also people whose eyes are filled with smoke, people with injectable happiness, people with liquid cures to the physical pain in their hearts when they open their eyes every morning. these are the people that started to dig themselves a grave when they realized they weren't happy. it wasn't intentional. they just tried so, so hard to be happy. they looked for anything and everything they thought could make them so, but all they found were poisons disguised as reasons to live.
these are the only types of people, there is absolutely no in between. however, one of these types of people can be stuffed inside the other. there can be coffins filled with flowers, and sunsets that do their best to cover a bottomless pit. there are people that live with some of both, but this could very easily be the most painful way to live. is it easier to live in the dark when you've never had a taste of the light?
in a small, run down club (with run down people) in chicago, there is a boy with bloodshot, and blurry eyes, swirling vodka around in a shot glass. he can't tell if it's doing anything for him, his mind was foggy before he started drinking.
the boy's boss, robbie, a stout man with harsh eyes and a receding hairline, cracks the door to the little break room, poking his head in.
the heaviness of the boy's sigh manages to make his lungs rattle.
"c'mon," robbie says. "you've got to go back out there eventually, jonah."
"yeah," he says, knocking back his second shot of vodka. "yeah, i know."
"i really hate that you do that," robbie commented, his eyes looked tired. "i'm sure the customers aren't particularly fond of it either."
"it's the only way i can do this. and besides, they're all ten times drunker than me. what's it matter?"
robbie rolls his eyes. "you're the most requested person we've got and if that," he says, gesturing toward the clear poison in the little cup jonah's holding, "keeps you here, then i'm going to turn a blind eye."
it's not like i was going to stop anyways, jonah thinks.
"any requests right now?"
robbie opens the door the rest of the way, and leans against the frame with a smug smile. "actually, yeah.. table seventeen. older guy."
jonah sighs, and rubs the line out of his forehead anxiously. "i'll follow you out."
he walks down the little hallway and through the velvet curtains that separate private rooms from the main floor. through the entrance, the air is hot, sticky and it clings to jonah's skin like static. he immediately feels eyes on him, raking over all of the places where his body curves and his skin isn't covered. he tries not to think about all the invisible hands on him right now, touching and tracing and pulling, like they know what he needs.
he has to pretend to like this and it makes him sick. god it makes him so fucking sick.
he finds table seventeen, and sure enough, there's an older man with grey stubble covering his skin from under his nose to about halfway down his neck. he's wearing a stained 'orgasm donor' t-shirt, with hole-filled sweatpants.
and jonah can't help but think, awesome. not only is he a pervert, but a douchebag too.
"hey," jonah says seductively, leaning onto the armrest of the chair with his legs crossed. "my name's angel-"
