Shut Up
Paid my debts to anxiety
Damn...And I thought I was safe from any more mental stimuli...
I watch the mirror with dejected eyes; really, there's nothing much to see, just the degeneration of a once healthy body to this sick and ugly shell that never gets any positive attention. The flatterings of money-maneuvred prostitutes and sluts that smell of a cheap alcohol does not count.
The ends of my ribs poke through the pasty-colored skin that only makes any protuberance stick out even more, any vein more obvious and any bruise damn apparent, but this doesn't bother me as much as my eyes. Nothing. Devoid of emotion, even if Mike used to say, a long time ago, that they gave out how pissed off I was at the world.
My lips scowl and I recall this scowl being the one I threw at manager Moe when he said Mike's songs are too depressive, this scowl that dissagrees.
Such unfriendly reminders, these thoughts of mine, that that dude's dead and won't ever laugh at the failed death glares I used to throw at our eccentric drummer and his overly obedient bitch. He won't ever smile that encouraging smile of his or indulge in any drink contests with me or play his extremely addictive jams...
My phone buzzes as a damn fly and I turn my dejected eyes to watch it. It might seem a bit dissapointed that it's not Emma calling, my glare, I mean, but it's only bored. Gray's called me ten times in the last three hours...
"When are you going to get it through that thick skull of yours that I won't ever fucking restart the band with you?!", I yell without retention, offering a groan at the end as encouragement for him to offer a smart reply.
"Uri, please!"
This is not a fucking smart reply...
"Beg for fucking redemption, you son of a bitch, because it's your damn fault that dude died!"
"How the fuck-"
And I hang up. It's easier to forget when you cut the umbilical cord through which world, or the past world, communicates with you.
The phone restarts its buzzing and I groan in exasperation; dumb people should just go off and die.
But it's not that dumb man. It's Emma...
"Yes?", I try to conceal the desperation in my voice, but it remains stuck by my tongue as bitter particles of flavour.
"Uri", I can hear the desperation in her voice as well." Can you...come and pick me up?"
It's a trap; really, these people are dumber than chikens...
...but I'll still go, because Emma needs me to go.
"Okay", I reply, masking the sadness in my voice.
"Uri?"
"Yes?"
"Come prepared"
I watch the mirror with dejected eyes; really, there's nothing much to see, just the degeneration of a once healthy body to this sick and ugly shell that never gets any positive attention. The flatterings of money-maneuvred prostitutes and sluts that smell of a cheap alcohol does not count.
The ends of my ribs poke through the pasty-colored skin that only makes any protuberance stick out even more, any vein more obvious and any bruise damn apparent, but this doesn't bother me as much as my eyes. Nothing. Devoid of emotion, even if Mike used to say, a long time ago, that they gave out how pissed off I was at the world.
My lips scowl and I recall this scowl being the one I threw at manager Moe when he said Mike's songs are too depressive, this scowl that dissagrees.
Such unfriendly reminders, these thoughts of mine, that that dude's dead and won't ever laugh at the failed death glares I used to throw at our eccentric drummer and his overly obedient bitch. He won't ever smile that encouraging smile of his or indulge in any drink contests with me or play his extremely addictive jams...
My phone buzzes as a damn fly and I turn my dejected eyes to watch it. It might seem a bit dissapointed that it's not Emma calling, my glare, I mean, but it's only bored. Gray's called me ten times in the last three hours...
"When are you going to get it through that thick skull of yours that I won't ever fucking restart the band with you?!", I yell without retention, offering a groan at the end as encouragement for him to offer a smart reply.
"Uri, please!"
This is not a fucking smart reply...
"Beg for fucking redemption, you son of a bitch, because it's your damn fault that dude died!"
"How the fuck-"
And I hang up. It's easier to forget when you cut the umbilical cord through which world, or the past world, communicates with you.
The phone restarts its buzzing and I groan in exasperation; dumb people should just go off and die.
But it's not that dumb man. It's Emma...
"Yes?", I try to conceal the desperation in my voice, but it remains stuck by my tongue as bitter particles of flavour.
"Uri", I can hear the desperation in her voice as well." Can you...come and pick me up?"
It's a trap; really, these people are dumber than chikens...
...but I'll still go, because Emma needs me to go.
"Okay", I reply, masking the sadness in my voice.
"Uri?"
"Yes?"
"Come prepared"