the hallway smells like spilled beer
and cheap perfume.
someone left their shoes by the door—
a pair of red heels,
like they ran out of courage
halfway to leaving.

I sit on the kitchen floor
with the fridge open,
because it’s the only light
that doesn’t feel like it’s judging me.

half a sandwich,
a bottle of ketchup,
some leftover pasta
that no one will eat.
it’s enough to survive,
but not enough to live.

my head still echoes
with the laughter of strangers,
the kind of laughter
that leaves you lonelier
than silence ever could.
everyone seemed to know the script,
their lines smooth as glass,
their smiles the currency of belonging.

but I just stood there
with a drink in my hand,
watching the ice melt
like it had somewhere better to be.

and now it’s just me
and the hum of the fridge,
and a thought I can’t shake:
that maybe,
all those people with their polished lines
and practiced laughs
feel the same way when it’s over.

maybe we’re all just trying
to get through the night
without anyone noticing
the holes in us,
the ones we spend all day
pretending aren’t there.

but then I look at the shoes by the door,
and I know the truth.

some of us
never even try to leave.

the morning crawls in
like an old lover—
too proud to apologize,
too familiar to push away.

I light the cigarette,
the only friend I trust
to show up on time.
ash falls like the years I wasted
chasing women who smelled like
wet matches,
jobs that paid me in ulcers,
and nights that disappeared
into bottles
emptier than I’ll ever admit.

but the world doesn’t ask.
it just watches,
waiting for the moment you fold
like a bar napkin
so it can laugh,
lean in close,
and say,
“what did you expect?”

I’ve loved people like that.
they took pieces of me
like souvenirs from a war
they never fought,
and left me
trying to stand
on a foundation
of broken bottles
and borrowed apologies.

and yet—
on some nights,
when the moon is just a witness
and not a judge,
I still want to live.
not for redemption,
or revenge,
but to see the way
a child laughs
like they’ve never
been lied to.

or to hear the sound
of a stranger crying
in the next apartment over
and know
I’m not the only one
that’s trying
to make sense of all this.

but then it hits me—
the hardest truth of all:
I don’t want the pain to stop.
I just want it
to mean something.

I came into this world
purple,
a bruise before I’d even been touched.
my mother,
terrified,
watched me fight for breath
that didn’t want me.
suffocating—
from the first second I was alive.

couldn’t crawl,
couldn’t walk—
my body slow to learn
how to move forward.
but eventually, I did.

kindergarten was quiet.
me, the kid who didn’t talk.
preschool, I found friends,
found a voice,
found something that felt like living.

then 5th grade came.
cigarettes.
*****.
pills.
older kids teaching me
how to burn my insides
so i wouldn’t feel my skin.

my best friend died.
two weeks later,
I drowned with someone else.
or almost.
he didn’t make it back.
I did.

then the years blurred:
drugs.
assault.
grief.
relapse.
trying to claw my way back to clean.
trying to feel like myself again,
if I even knew who that was.

sometimes,
I think back to that purple baby,
struggling for breath,
and wonder
if maybe I wasn’t supposed
to make it past that first minute.
maybe life has been one long suffocation.

or maybe
I’m still in that hospital room,
fighting for air,
waiting for someone to say:
“you can breathe now.”

the sun sets quietly,
as if it’s tired of being seen.
I wonder if I‘d do the same
if I could.

it sits in the closet,
folded like a bad memory.
I haven’t touched it in years—
but it touches me.
every night,
every time the air feels too heavy
against my skin,
it comes back.

his hands.
God, his hands.
they were everywhere,
moving like they owned me.
they gripped my hair—
tight, pulling, claiming,
and I can still feel them
dragging across my cheeks,
brushing my lips.
it wasn’t gentle.
nothing about it was gentle.
they pressed into my neck,
lingering too long,
and slid down to my belly,
my thighs—
fingers greedy,
leaving trails that still burn.
it wasn’t just touch.
it was a stain.
it sank into my skin,
and no matter how hard I scrub,
it won’t come out.

that night,
I slept on my friend’s couch.
I curled up,
a shell of myself,
and stared at the wall.
they didn’t ask
why my voice was quieter,
why my hands were shaking.
I wanted to scream—
but the words felt
as useless as I did.
I just laid there,
praying for sleep,
praying for silence,
praying for the memory of his hands
to let me go.

but it never does.
his touch is still here,
woven into the fibers of that shirt,
lurking in the shadows of my reflection.
even when I’m alone,
I’m not.
his fingerprints are on me,
inside me.

and the shirt—
I can’t wear it.
every time I try,
it tightens around my neck,
like he’s behind me again.
it doesn’t feel like fabric anymore.
it feels like him.

I want to throw it away,
but I don’t.
as if keeping it
keeps it real.
as if throwing it away
might make me forget
that it happened.

but I never forget.
I can’t forget.
because he’s still here,
in the way I flinch,
in the way I avoid mirrors,
in the way I still
can’t breathe.

The world’s a lot less kind
than I thought it’d be.
But I‘m still here -
broken, tired,
with a grin on my face
and a smoke in my hand.

it starts with the ritual—
the line drawn neat,
a surgeon’s precision,
your hands shaking
but steady enough
to carve the moment.
the dollar bill rolls up,
tight as your chest,
your lungs bracing
for the burn
that always comes
too fast,
too much,
but never enough.

it’s like snorting the edge of a knife,
sharp, raw,
your brain lights up,
every nerve screaming
hallelujah
and oh, God,
at the same time.
your teeth clench,
your jaw locks
like a rusted door.
the world is too bright,
too loud,
but for a moment,
you are invincible,
a God
built on powder and lies.

then it settles in—
slow, like regret,
like a lover slipping out
in the middle of the night,
and you’re left
with the silence,
the empty mirror,
the body you no longer own.

you tell yourself
you can stop—
later.
next time.
tomorrow.
but the tomorrow you picture
isn’t real.
it’s just another lie
you snort,
crush,
chase.

the powder doesn’t fix you—
it just smooths the cracks,
fills the holes
for a moment.
but you can feel them widening,
feel yourself
slipping through,
and still,
you go back,
because at least the fall
is familiar.