the clock is ticking on the mantlepiece and the house is empty and cold
it is dark, and the dogs are barking and i can't think, oh god, i can't think, because the world is imploding and the clock has stopped ticking and
it has been silent for a while now
there is no reason to panic,  I tell myself,  no reason at all
but this is a lie and while it might help me breathe better,
it won't put the bullet back inside the gun
it won't force the words back down my throat,
or put the glass on the floor back together
the walls are on fire and the glass is sizzling, and red-hot
the smell of blood - yours, probably - is thick and strong and metallic
the walls are on fire and i can't think, can't even breathe, because the smell of blood is,
quite frankly, overwhelming.
and then i blink and i'm back here, in the kitchen,
and you're staring at me like i'm something interesting,
like i'm not a worthless scrap that the dog just brought in,
but i can tell something's still wrong because you're talking but the words
don't quite register
and then everything comes spinning back to earth, and you're still talking
only i can hear you now
and you're telling me that it's not okay, it's not right, you've had enough and you're leaving now
and it only takes me a moment to realize
that the whole world is currently wearing a plaid button-down and old jeans with
a hole in one of the knees
that the whole world smells like apples and laundry soap
it only takes me a moment to realize that the whole world resides in a three pound brain piloting
rather attractive meatsuit
it only takes me a moment to realize that the whole world is walking out the door
and that he probably isn't coming back

the room i am staying in
carries the noticeable smell
of whiskey
it is nearly overwhelming
and the first time i walk in
i double over
unable to breathe
but over time
i become used to the cold floor
and the acrid smell
and the dusty windows
and over time
the only dishes used
are the glasses
which i fill with whiskey
and it seems far too soon
that i become the man in the room
the man passed out drunk on the floor
on the couch
on the bed
and it seems far too soon
when i become the man in the kitchen
staring out those dusty windows
drowning the day in liquor
drowning my day
it is not that i am sad
it is just that i have little to hope for
i am not like the rest of you
intelligent
or athletic
or handsome, even
and it seems far too soon
when i become the man lying in the casket
in the ground
eternally staring at the epitaph that
supposedly describes my life
cheerful
it tells a tale of the beauty of life
and now
lying in the grave
the only thing i find the time to care about
is the epitaph
what total ******* *******.

they say that you have some rare
hard-to-pronounce disease
and you don't
but the doctor's kids
are dying from something real
and he needs the money.