paint the walls

It’s late in the day, veering in on midnight. I’m sitting out back, struggling with my old pal suicidal ideation. I’m not going to kill myself, if that’s where you’re headed. I’m not going to kill myself, at least not yet. But it’s been a bad year, and it keeps getting worse. My current bargain goes something like hang in until mom dies, or hang in until the last pet is gone, with daily adjustments and wild card variations. But today. Well I don’t have a gun, but if I did I would paint the walls.

So it’s the hateful traces, the wreck of this back porch, the ruins of my life. The slap in the face that passing tourists seem obliged to offer. The tea party thinking and active not listening these sightseers bring to their transactions, pennies flung in the fountain for the scrambling children (that’s a lot of money to them), beads to buy the island. To remind you that you’re alone, to remind you that you’re strange, to remind you of who says what and when. You are unloved, here’s a trinket, fucker. 

Here I am wasting everyone’s time. Here I am making things worse. As if the indignity of being me isn’t enough. As if I hadn’t already given the fuck up. Not one moment was worth it. Not one day would I keep. Just a statistic waiting to be counted. Just a life wasted on wishes, out here wishing I had a gun.