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; the 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 that 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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