We need to leave this place. Pack your bag with bottles, the fuller ones, paper, pens and an old t-shirt, one that you can use to either wipe your ass with or wrap a wound with.
The shitstorm is here and I know you don't love me and that's fine but we'll want to get the fuck out of here and maybe we'll re-learn to like each other after we escape together, by a hair, by a thread, by a shot, because we split a smoke instead of each dragging full. We got out of that place. That place that is in my head, in my nightmares and my dreams, that escape that a tornado always manages to find. "Fuck you, 'nado!"
I call upon bravado, bullshit and phoniness. "I will lead the way!" You look at me like I'm a fucking idiot. I am one. My back hurts and spasms. "I've got nothing." You run. Typical. As soon as I admit that I'm out of gas you go look for a ride.
Alone now. I feel it on my back. The night is thicker, denser, heavy like a fur coat thrown on my back. I can barely breathe. Thankfully, you dropped the bag. I really want a drink, in the middle of this darkness. I can at least try to get me out of here, after a few hits...
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