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paid for by the Ad Council
god, but you hate that song. its pulsing and pounding invades your bones even through the stark concrete walls of the warehouse. raver girls stream outside in hawaiian bikini tops and not much else, streaking their glow sticks through the dark air like artificial fireflies. a sharp, cramping pain inside you and his crushing weight shifts and writhes and smothers you with the scent of acrid flowers, a cheap aftershave you will hate for the rest of your life. he's so dirty didn't his mother teach him to clean under his fingernails, everything inside you is dirty and decaying and it hurts like they left an operating room scalpel inside you. the pavement feels wet and sticky beneath you, are you lying in blood? vomit, you realize with a mild disgust as the sharp scent of gastric juices and sour beer makes and almost visible cloud around you. he's clutching you harder and the pain stabs deeper and he's whispering i love you. this is almost your undoing, those words of comfort in a dark alley where no one knows your name. the glowstick girls flit up and down the narrow strip of road and bow down to the gods of the streetlights and one by one pass out like moths to the sweet music of empty mcdonald's bags scraping along the concrete in a hot night wind. you hardly notice when he rolls away, satisfied, asleep or passed out some feet away. you only know the hot wind on your bare sticky thighs, is it blood or something else? a dumpster behind you, that's why everything smells like decay, you thought it was your body decomposing into soft meat for the maggots. a dusty orange cat looks up from an empty tuna can and regards you with great sadness reflected in his curiously luminescent eyes. perhaps you were brothers in a past life. with the moon shining in a stray cat's eyes you realize who you are: you are the kid on afterschool antidrug specials who always winds up dead.
__________________
Only in spiritual terror can
the truth
come through the broken mind.
~ W.B. Yeats
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