with every febrile breath he takes in
he feels contemptuous saliva burn his lips like pouring green acid
he listens to heavy metal violence on a pair of headphones
that cover his ears completely
as he sings too loudly on the bus.
he clenches his eyelids shut, hard, as he grinds out throat thorns.
he is god
and he knows all the songs (in a room that is black and red).
the people he hates stare for a moment and return their stupid shiny eyes
to the blurred pastel of suburban houses passing in the window,
composed, and do not know that they are dying.
and he is still pretending to play guitar and make his old friends feel like failures.
Back.