Pain Syrup

Pain syrup, what it is that I wait for until I can wait no longer? and I sip it, tastes awful, oh so awful, I sip it, glancing as trains pass by, the ever so little pigeons strutting along the tracks - do they ever dream of death? I bring out the pain syrup, one tiny sip, and it burns my tongue, and I sip it, until I can no longer.

The shadows keep peeping from the back, 'What do you want?' they giggle and dance away — strange. I push them further into my laptop bag, stifling them, and choking them a bit. No one can hear them scream until they catch up to me.

Pain syrup, I carefully pour a little more and drink it down, gulping away. It trickles down my throat, one bitter taste at a time, the wounds staring back at me, knowing they will never heal; I let them fester.

Sunlight dances its delicate dance, the moon’s in agony or so it wrote. The tracks don't align alongside each other when the trains all crisscross across the city, they can't stand being together, I fathom. From the seat in the center, suffocated by faces, all of this feels so silly. But as I stand nearer to the exit, it all makes so much more sense. 

One bad thought after the other, handkerchiefs all damp, earphones plugged in, but my mind plays my favorite tormenting playlist on loop, Spotify can't help me- no.

Or do I need to make meaning out of it? Too much work, give me my pain syrup, I gulp it down so that I can be happy no more. Pain’s that familiar friend; he fixes it all by messing it all up - my pain syrup, so perfect yet so, so bitter. It's a strange little empty feeling, not devoid of those these days, the balancing act of life makes it hazy, but the senses all slowly flow back to wherever they’re supposed to be, as I edge closer to the exit, is it my station yet? 

Disorder is order. Give me my pain syrup so that I can make sense of this.

Is it evening again? Carefully, I push down one last cold spoonful down my throat. Choked up, my words—they want to be let out. They say they hate me; I've been holding them back for too long. How long can I hold them, prisoner, I wonder. 

A notes app entry is where they will end up, never to be seen by another pair of eyes again. Convenient.

The curtains blowing in the wind drift me back to happier times. Is it that time again? Do I have to remember how that part is gone, walked herself into oblivion with the backpack of everything I held so close, 

I take my pain syrup, the firewood crackles, and I watch it burn for hours.

Is it time for my pain syrup yet? What time is it? Can't really tell.