As a child the world is beautiful and everything in it,
delicious.
So there we are laughing at cartoons,
chasing butterfly kisses in the wind,
and crying about how "Billy said I couldn't ride his bike because I have blonde hair!"
You have your own bike which makes little to no difference.
Kids are cruel.
Rebel.
"*******, Billy! I've got my own bike!"
Years pass.
We grow and come face to face with reality.
The world is named Billy.
Billy gnashes his black,
tar covered,
teeth.
Nostrils fill with his nicotine masked morning breath as he's kicking your ***.
You're awake now,
face down on a park bench burying your own ***** in the dew drenched sand at 10 a.m.
You rip apart at the seams
The wounds of time open in your brain
And you are no longer satisfied.
The ***** you drank to drown your pain becomes you.
A manifestation of time,
age,
and bittersweet friendships
forgotten or vanquished by Billy are forefront in your mind.
Time has consumed you.
Billy has swallowed you whole.
Living has never become more important than when life is threatening to abandon you.
Time is up.
Your savior demolished you.
Liver shriveled,
heart black,
brain dead,
and soul less.
Killed at the bottom of a bottle and crawling
NO!
begging for forgiveness.
Reality strikes.
You once again remember your need for Billy.
Billy, that bad *** with his two chrome wheels and distaste for blondes.
Loathing his existence.
The smell of Billy ever present as the sweet taste of life drains from your tongue.
Slipping has never been more difficult.
Drawing a last breath of bitter air into your lungs as you whisper
"*******, Billy. I have my own bike."