A reflection
by Chris Hibbard


The bottle is empty and I’m cursing it because it didn’t even give the buzz that I wanted to disappear into. My life sinks into the seams of the mattress, evaporating into what I only wish it wouldn’t.
Tears have been wept; all cried out over what should, from the beginning, have been nothing. The dried up tracks of teardrops emblazon my cheeks with the marks of handcrafted despair.
The deejay plays Rob Zombie and it’s as if he’s screaming at me. The halogen beams of my lamp are whispering, saying “shut your book, turn me off, go to sleep.” My phone has gone unused, for the simple fact that whoever I talk to will just tell me that they told me so. But I told myself too.
The alcohol takes minute effect, either that or my head is pounding from thinking so hard. The only things I have left are a few cards, a note, a Zippo and memories of someone with whom I’ll probably never speak again; all due to the fact that my love isn’t good enough for her. My feet are sore for no reason and it makes me feel all the more drained.
Now I’ve got to change my speed dial, before I accidentally forget not to call. I never thought about this kind of hurt. It was always more like TV melodrama, but I guess I have to deal with real life.
I can’t stop thinking about the details. Like the popsicles and The Exorcist. What the about the tape of songs that reminded her of me? What about love? What about us….


~ by Chris Hibbard on November 6, 2008.

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