Thing of the Past.

Things were shattering on the dance floor. The chandelier was aging and dying in front of us as time took its toll all at once. Rain, like arrogance, is a concept; it has shortcomings and you can argue its qualities and significance. Tonight, it was raining glass. Tomorrow, flowers could be falling from the sky. The innards of the building was like a mouth, unleashing its patient scheme and catching us all in its vice. I kept to my one-two step and forwarded my partner into the Romanian waltz, she was bleeding down her left arm.

Her painted lavender mask tragically ironic in a grimace. She was panicking. I let her. After all, my face was taken in a scarlet smile. I felt Satan’s heat on the blunt of my cheeks. Some women screamed while others simply did nothing. No one in the room was resigned to the death they had been assigned. No one, but me.

Fortunately for us, the ceiling and floor kissed.

Something is very wrong.

I blamed the hormones for coursing my blood faster and faster and lining my arteries with sparks. I blamed my heart for refusing to stop beating. I blamed my family for fucking and for placing the vodka within my genes—my hands. I blamed my friends for scuttling away into darkness to find their own lights and games. I smashed my heart with my fist; and ate the pieces. And like a light going out, I sat down in blood.

And like a light going out,

I laid down and forgot to breathe.

[“Did you try to give up? When I began to walk away from you!? Did it fill every wanting corner of your innocent mind before I blew it? Look at yourself. You’ve become a shell. I dare you to blame me.”]