Photo reblogged from Wasted Words
three versions of tomorrow
i.
From the other side of the door, music and laughter and knocking. Someone else wanting in. Check the lock, turn back to the mirror freckled in water spots and a smear of toothpaste. That harsh light from above hollows your cheeks, your eyes. Cooling pits of tar from which nothing stares back. Nothing. Christ, but the world wobbles on the foundation of rum and vodka. Punch the wall beside the mirror. Punch the sink. Split your knuckles, spit your venom. Fall back into the tub laughing, laughing. Red runs between your fingers. This will hurt, but not until the morning.ii.
Curl into your sheets, arms heavy, eyes heavier still. Everything heavy. That clawing sensation beneath your stomach. Be better, be better, be better.iii.
But the bed will be empty again, and there will be no coffee waiting in the pot, and the windows won’t have been opened to get the air moving. The only footsteps in the hall will be your own. There is a ghost to your voice when there wasn’t before. No one is coming back, no matter how you wish it so.(Photo: pluja fina (a l’atac))
Source: flickr.com
