Wellbutrin and Cigarettes
His glasses sit crooked on his face, paper in the hinges to keep from sliding off. The frames hold an outdated prescription and scratched lenses. He’s wearing thin, wearing out all his welcomes. He’s a railroad through the lives of others. He barrels through the houses of friends and lovers alike. To him, there is no difference. There’s a girl in Indonesia, or was it Iceland? Setting little fires, he tries to warm the colder hearts in Clinton’s Court. He left his half-beating heart in a gutter in Bucktown on Oakley Ave. He came to in a homeless shelter in Palm Beach County surrounded by souls as tarnished and damaged as his. The skinny palms and wandering iguanas were home to him then. He expected traffic signs in a foreign language and bullet trains speeding by, but he awoke to debt of money and amends. Despite his better attempts, there’s a persistent frog in his throat, congestion caused by cigarettes.
Are there any feelings other than regret?
A stage set for symphonic sound drastically underdressed, and a 5 am wake-up call. He’d like to go gray in the Rooms, but there’s a reservation set for the late morning of his lifespan. Seat L28, in the center, he closes his eyes and feels the percussion in his chest. The string section tugs at his veins, pulling them taut as the harpist plucks away. The horns paint the walls with his frontal cortex; his midbrain is all that remains. It was his first live show since almost coughing up his kidneys on Billsville’s living room floor. He’s an anxiety inducer, exuding his life source, forcing it from open pores through tattoos on his arid skin. Never does he respond; only does he react.
Power comes from an outside source, while control is but an illusion. The less power he feels, the more control he exerts; the more control expounded, the more powerless he becomes. Cycling through engrained behavior, his attitude retains that hue of similar color, darker shades of blue. The triangle chimes, and a steady repletion rings in his head. Sitting idle on his mustard couch, there’s a clatter in the distance; the antlers holding up his plants and jewelry crash to the floor, ripping a hole in the plaster. His closets burst open, two gallons in a one-gallon bucket. By intermission, he’s sick of all the applause. The violinist deserves it, but it’s a gift he’s unwilling to give. Love makes him ill, but it’s all he wants. Of course, from outside his body, he has none for himself, none too keen and lacking a certain fondness. The light blinks red as his time is nearing close.
He left in the height of summer and came back to fall. Shooting Wellbutrin like pulls from the bottle he used to sip. He woke up on the floor at 4 am, drooling on the hardwood with blurry vision and a pounding head. All at once, the memories rush back in. It’s only sleep that saves his skin. He can’t take to slumber without medicine from the bottle sitting alone on the countertop. Portraying an image he wanted to become but was not, he thought if she believed it, then maybe he could too, the great prevaricator. No camouflage would suffice yet, his proclivity to hide was all too strong to ignore. Fear of the actual, dishonesty like wool over cotton eyes. By now it’s all too much, for even he has forgotten truth. He fell out of her life and blocked the reclamation. He was so far removed from his own life. How could he keep it up?
A letter bound for hell, postage marked and paid for. He knows she’ll be alright, but does that excuse his reckless action? He is a recluse, a wreck, loose in his deception while playing victim. Every morning, he drops to his knees and surrenders. He spends the day fighting, replacing the loss with the prospect of a new acquisition and hostage. He’s not what he appears: a shell skin deep, a poisoned bloodstream, and a venomous tongue. A master of disguise, a shapeshifting demon, abandon all hope ye who enter him.
