ᴰᴿᴵᴺᴷ ᴹᴼᴿᴱ ᵂᴬᵀᴱᴿ

ˢʷᵃˡˡºʷ ʸºᵘʳ ʳᵉʰᵃᵇ

You're sitting on the edge of the clear lagoon, kiddy legs dipping into bluecrystal. Your heart gallops at the site of those gigantic waterlilies, looking as if it were made for your body and imagination. Temptation takes over your heart the more your eyes graze over the sparkling water lines covered in green mats. The next thing you know, you're swimming with your little legs to the safety and comfort a little pad. A mother's cry for help in the background is such a strange thing to hear. You think you're safe.

I think that's partially what my little dilemma is. The childlike like glee for the unknown and thinking if I go out and seek it, nothing will hurt me. It won't hurt me. I look down into the half-empty bottle and my family floats inside of it, taunting with me with the genetic disease of never moving on and never growing up from crises. My brothers, my sister, my aunt. They like to taunt me about curingthe disease. I laugh while swallowing the rest of the burden. It's unthinkable for them to think I will ever move on, not at this age,not at this time. Especially when they surround themselves with hypocritical dogma. Sorry, but sometimes finding your own vice willteach you to shut up, swallow your own rehab, and mind your own fucking sin.

Sometimes when I'm really out of it, my mind makes up recordings of my little sister telling me "i love you" in broken child English. Sometimes when I'm really sick from bourbon, my brother will wrestle me to theground and think his words are hitting my liver just as much as his own sickness. Sometimes I block everyone out and think to myself "cups are never be half-empty or half-full, they're overflowing you ungrateful sober bastards."

"my glass should always be overflowing" (my brain, 2015). Welcoming someone like you into my brain probably isn't safe for your probably optimistic view on life and health, so if you're turned off by cynicism and sick people like me, you might as well leave before you nag me about my viewpoints. But, if you're interested, welcome to myworld, heavily influenced by the man, Irvine Welsh.

I'm in my room, massive by choice, and a little bit of wealth. The only light that ever pours into this abyss is through the holes of thevelvet curtains on the 10 feet by 5 feet glass windows. Anyone who peeks into here can tell I share the same home designer as Jimmy Page his prime or a some male in his 20's. Stacks of books are at every corner,drawers are at the far ends of the wall, and various bottles are under my bed.Band posters are on the walls veneered by graffiti, courtesy of Dad and Gramps, the music fanatics. Cornell wouldn't be goring into mysoul if it weren't for my Dad's fixation on 80's metal and 90's grunge. He'd then tell me that the 80's was the worst era of eras, but he doesn't regret his Slayer tickets.

I finish the bottle in my hand, and, through tradition, I read the quote on the wall parallel to my bed: "drink more water." I Always wonder if some drug addict owned this place before us and that he had drawn and written things on the wall before going insane from smack or something. But, that particular work of art had rocked my mind. It takes me back to start of freshman year, '13 or so, when I had been fostering my love for hallucinogens, thanks to quite acrappy friend. We had moved into this mansion out in the middle ofnowhere Massachusetts, and I found this quote while tripping balls. I had taken it's advice... incorrectly.

Little by little, my body somehow gets itself off the bed and onto the hardwood floor. My stomach aches against the cold oak, as I dug underneath the bed for more liquor. However, every bottle pulled outof that depth of hell were empty or not what I need for my liver. Romeo, oh, Romeo, I yell under my bed. After about 10 minutes of failure, I sit up against my bed and sigh.

"Juliet, oh, Juliet."

Knock. Throb. Beat. Knock. Throb. Beat. Beat. Knock. Throb. A great symphony to wake up to after passing out on a seat of bottles.My brain's trying to murder itself via defenestration. The someone that's banging on my door are on the verge of losing their life, and my heart is jumping out of her rib cage. I prop my body up, almost falling onto the bed, and stagger over the mirror on my drawer top. Ah, black-bluish masterpieces sit under my right eye and on my collarbones. I move my face closer to the mirror and take off my glasses to inspect them. Purplish on top, then they blend into blue, maroon, and black clockwise. They also don't respond well to my fingers grazing over them. Picasso would be pleased with the pain and accidental--Beat. Knock. Throb.