your lungs fill with smoke. not the kind you want. the dark kind. the kind that swirl overhead and take the sun away. your lungs fill with thick, black smoke and there's no room for air. you don't scream, or cry, or call for help. it's just the way thigs work out. you want to pull your heart out through the veins in your wrist. you want to swing from the bar in your closet like you swung on swingsets as a child. you want to write the name of every single thing that bothers you on a single bullet and fire it into your brain, so that when the doctors go to remove it, all that shit will finally be out of your head. you blink once. twice. the moon is rising. the thoughts are invasive, unwelcome. just happens sometimes without your say-so. you're staring out the window at the moon rising in the East, past your reflection. you don't want to see her. she's a monster. last night's clothes still scattered on the floor like the body of an old friend. you knew her well you hated her. can't escape that hate. that loathing,lonesome, hollow feeling. that void you can't fill even after tossing gallons of alcohol and hundreds of milligrams into it. you're a black hole. scathing thoughts and broken phrases in need of some kind of repair. no time. no energy. fuck it. fuck all of it. you're digging a grave for yourself. friends tell you to stop, they reach into the hole and lift you out, but there isn't a point, because you're going to die anyway.