It all began as the shotglass took my hand,
Leading me into the ***** waltz that had become so necessary for me to survive the evening.
We bought ***** for each other, me and these people I end up drinking with.
There was that girl who told me she liked loneliness, but forgot those claims eight hours later.
And the guy in my apartment building who only comes over when he hears the word “she”.
But tonight I am happy with them, because tonight I am blind.

Me and these humans, we danced and we shrieked and we felt like gods,
And between drowning sessions, we found our tongues down strangers’ throats;
They explain that they were “so wasted” (and I wordlessly agree that yes, we certainly are.)
Laughter and a false forgiveness follow their excuse.

We catapulted ice cubes into Britney’s mouth, and I sat there, quietly watching them melt,
The cold water trickling past the white veneer of her teeth and kicking in the cavities.
Her strawberry-flavored lips quivered against both the liquid’s biting chill, and the iciness of my gaze.
Her giggles slowed to a silence as I stared at the skin beneath her nose, raw from constant waxing.
And as I pondered why I was sitting there, the group of uncertain eyes all looked at me, disappointed in my disconnection.
“Shots for Scott! Shots for Scott!” they chanted. I sighed, accepted, and stopped all that seeing once again.

Oh these people, I hate them but I love them because they are easy to use as friends,
And, like mannequins playing with dolls, we take each other out of the toy chest on the whim.

We flocked from our secondhand nest, and flew up the backroom stairs.
Exploding at the top of the discotheque in a fervor, we lied at the top of our lungs:
“This is the best night ever!”, “I don’t know where I am!”, “I am happy!”.
I vomited between the screaming and the listening.

After ten or so of these claims, they were just shrieking swears at passerbys.
There was too much bile and not enough bliss here,
So I stood up on the ledge, and started to tango by my lonesome.
They laughed at the insanity of it all, and called me “crazy” and “free-spirited”.
Dean tried to scramble up too, and make an equal spectacle, but I didn’t see his climb (I’m blind, remember?), and I slipped on his hand.

And as though my strings were cut, my appendages weakly fluttered as I fell.
I looked up to gaping faces, covered mouths, but no outstretched arms.

It was then that I wrote my philosophy of life, but before I could write it down proper, my vertebras folded back as my frame flattened against the pavement.
It’s a shame I couldn’t, because when I opened my mouth to exclaim it with the air left in my punctured lungs,
All that I could hear was the bass of the club’s dance music, and the sound of parking cars.