The Z of life from under a smoking mirror

The Z of life from under a smoking mirror

‘And sometimes life felt worth living, and sometimes it didn’t’. It was Autumn and death was in vogue;┬áthe world happened, rhythmically. Everything was automated, even biology. Wake, expend, expire…lather, rinse, repeat. Adolescence was full of non-sequiturs and six-syllable pharmaceuticals; some people were given to certain things. Gas prices were high and Kate still wanted to cross-country. It had to wait. She hated me for it, but I still loved her.

I bumped my head and bled the floor on Saturday night. It was the midnight snacking, guilty pleasures. Sometimes I feel like St. Peter won’t call my name, but I’ve read the Bible and I’m a good man. I feel Luke was like me, a poet. His gospel had bits of me in it. Two days ago, a girl told me she saw me die, said I was responsible for a sin in the park. I kept smoking my cigarettes. I feel we should all go out through exit wounds, in gunpowder, maybe.

Sophie was an approximation of me, but Kate didn’t like Sophie. Sophie always tried to keep in touch. I wrote her a week ago, no reply. I wrote again yesterday, ditto. I was in the kitchen this morning, dicing tomatoes. I cut myself accidentally. Blood littered the counter and it reminded me of Black. Black died before she could give birth to puppies, and we never said anything about it ‘cuz┬áthat was life. The blood on the kitchen counter had swollen into a pool. I almost reached for the band-aids, but… ‘sometimes it was worth living, n’ sometimes it wasn’t’.

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