Shut Up

The rhythm is maddening. It's like I'm doing a thousand moves at the same time, in the same moment, twisting, jerking, falling, jumping.
And I love it. The beat. The rhythm. The everything that tastes so damn good.

I even love the sweat that trickles down every patch of skin, clinging to fabric as if they broke up and she wants to reconcile, but he doesn't. I love it because I hate it so much it causes energy to build up and I hit my drums with even more passion.

I love the lights and the bottles I have to dodge.
I love the wood beneath my feet and the chair beneath my butt.
I love that I can't see who threw the bottle, or who's giving me a flirty look.
I love that it's only me and my drums.

And...
And I hate that I can't stop thinking about how I loved it even more when it wasn't just me and my drums, but me and Val and Uri and Matt and...and Mike...
And now I don't have anything but my drums and a lousy check Joe writes me at the end of each week I survive through.

And stupid Uri refuses to even listen to me!
He doesn't want to see me, or hear me, or even know I still live! He's such a stubborn ass!
I want it all back...The band.The friends.The fame.The chicks.

Why don't you?

A bottle comes out of nowhere, the right hemisphere of nowhere, and...I'm such an idiot that it actually hits.
I stop my beats and my sticks drop from my digits.They go up and pat the aching head that drools red.
And...
And I go to the other side, where I'm always happy and not alone...