No Wings

What's a Party to You?

This is a rant.
It shouldn't be a poem,
but here I am:
making this a poem.

I'm not a party animal.
That will confuse some,
but it's the truth:
I'm not a party-er.

Why?
Because a party isn't a party
unless a girl is crying in the bathroom
because a boy doesn't like her.

A party isn't a party
unless there's alcohol and drugs.
A party is a celebration of life
mixed with the things that kill us.

I smoke, drink, and pop
to numb all the pain inside,
because I'm working on dying.
I do it to feel normal.

I don't do it because it's cool,
or because it makes me look hot.
Frankly, it's neither.
I prefer to do these things alone.

A party is a place of numbing,
no longer a time of happiness.
If I party, I'm praying I overdose
and I wake in the hospital.

I party so hard,
but only by myself.
Parties are made up
of the things that fulfill my death wish.

Parties are supposed to be times of happiness,
but they're made of suicidal thoughts.
The whole time I'm thinking
"I'm fine with dying, as long as I'm high tonight."

Parties aren't parties unless someone's
passed out on the floor.
Parties are places where people die,
events where people let their pain take control
in front of others.

I kill myself when I'm alone.
I don't want to freak out other people
by how hard I go into the drugs.

I'm not party-er because
parties are made up of the things
that remind me of my pain and suffering.
Parties are made of suicide devices.

Don't ask me if I want to go out tonight,
because the answer is no.
I'm not gay for it,
I just prefer to hurt myself alone.