April 23rd, 2011 - 11:15pm
White sheets white walls white furniture I am drowning in this color that is not even a color. My brain is all washed out but I swallow three more pretty pills because I know what I will be after this. I am used to this feeling of nothing, of this white, of this mind-numbing life. They say you are not defined by your actions, but by the content of your character. What the fuck does that mean? I am defined by these pills. I am defined by the amount of drugs swimming around in my brain, by the amount of beautiful words spoken to me by semi-beautiful boys in not-at-all-beautiful hotel rooms on highways in towns and cities and states I can’t even locate on a map. I don’t know you but I know your hands; they travel up and down my legs like they’ve known them since before time started. Staring up at a white ceiling and I try to remember the last time I swallowed my three pretty pills. The ceiling is white, it washes my mind, your hands are between my legs, and I do, not feel a, thing. I don’t make a noise and you don’t care you make enough for the both of us and how could you get pleasure out of this the only pleasure I get is through these pills and why is every ceiling fucking white? I used to like white and now it is nothing more than something that lives beneath my skin and eats me alive when I am asleep. It is another monster to add to the list, a five letter word that haunts me in my dreams, along with you and these pills, and those hands. Your hands are dirty and my brain melts onto the bed right beneath your filthy knees and what state am I in again? I hope I’m in Kansas and click my heels together three times there’s no place like home there’s no place like home there’s no place like home and I open my eyes to a white ceiling a man in between my thighs and three pretty pills on the bed-side table. I am never in fucking Kansas.