Sunday, 29 January 2012


I think I was suffocating that night.

I just recall laying in bed and watching the lights hum slightly as day and night seemed to shift, alcohol was wearing off, insomnia dancing and no reason to wake tomorrow were just keeping my eyelids firmly open.

There is a buzzing in my head as I think I am getting questioned and the fact that there were drugs on the table near the bed mattered and a quick nod to the same officer did nothing.

I had an alibi and we both knew I never killed her. I sat on the doorstep, the cigarette in my hands dissolving into ashes and hopefully Amy would follow the trail to my fingers.

I bought her the drums she played, maybe that explains my head aches.

And all of it resembles, well, the walls do, as I watch the shadows try to close my eyes. I sit up and I see her playing the drums again and she’s telling me something and I see a bowl with water in it.

She sticks her fingers in the water, hair holding above her eyes, and her skin is wet as she takes the burning fag out and inhales.

I see her taking teeth with honey out and chewing them in half.

It doesn’t look like her.

But then it doesn’t look like me either and I feel the need to look at the ceiling where her hands play with the curtains of the night.

And the feel of the day I believe should come soon and I’ll be sitting in the kitchen just staring at the balcony, feeling the future go on and consume me and maybe I’ll be the next one with drugs being my wings to death.

Maybe she’ll go out of the fridge laughing and pour alcohol on me and then she’ll just sit crosslegged talking about something, pouring liquid straight into my mouth. I will squirt it out of my mouth and it’ll go through her.

“I’m dead.” And we’ll drink to that. I’ll go downstairs to the small grocery, get milk, come back and I think the day will be over and I’ll hear drums again.

And I’ll ask her to play with her and she’ll put her drumsticks away. She won’t drum again.

She’ll just stand up.

And I’ll want a drink.

A pint.

Maybe I’ll want to take the ceiling for myself.

Maybe I’ll shoo her with a broom, laughing.

But she won’t laugh.

She’ll be dead.

She’ll be fucking dead up to the point that I’ll be able to go and poke her with my feet with her realtives staring and I will kick her in the ribs, harder and ahrder, waiting for blood to go out, but nothing will, the flesh will just bend and she’ll lay still.

I’ll take the corpse and put her around my neck.

I’ll wear her.

Yeah, I would.

I light a fag.

I exhale.

She closes the curtains on the ceiling and the ashes fly, scatter and fuck

I make out with the fag.

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