Droplet Of My Own Blood.

I see the keys beside me on this dusty couch. I’m thinking about bludgeoning my eyes with them, sliding them in and letting them bleed all over the trashy carpet. My world is upside down and my inevitable decline has started, and the apartment is rotting like my core. I do seek redemption but there’s too much decaying to do. There’s too much rot in this life. I’m a pessimistic rallying tears from my own repulsive eyes. 
The ladder to the attic is my tool of trying to gain access to heaven. I know it’s a long shot, but I could bust open the ceiling and jump as far as I can and claw on to the dress of an unsuspecting angel. Or I might fall through this paper-thin floor into the flames of hell, onto to the lap of a self-righteous devil, smoking cigarettes and blowing the smoke in my face. 
Either way, I’m up for it, those places must be better than the monotonous suburbia I find myself stewing in. A part of the world where drugs are easier to get than sweets, where guns near enough shoot themselves. It’s a joke, a fucking squalid hindrance. The kettle has finished boiling. It takes a while as its old. My grandmother left it to me. She also left old pictures of her and my mother, a mother I never knew. 
I get up from the couch and walk across the line, the frozen floor connects with my feet, sending a shiver of discomfort through them. I put two sugars in a black coffee, sipping it, wondering if the caffeine will awaken my mind. I then add a little spot of bourbon, cancelling out any health kick. I lost my head a while ago. So the added supplement of alcohol keeps me from falling into a sorry state of talking to myself or getting shit deep into a nervous breakdown. 
Black tie check, white shirt check, whiskey flask, check. Everything seems to be in order. All I need is a eulogy. A note of remembrance. 
Today is the day of losing myself to my emotions, or something like that. It’s a day of tears and drama, muddled feelings, emptiness. 
I drag back a sip of whiskey from the flask. 
I drag back the black socks over my blue feet. 
I stand up and observe myself in the mirror. I can’t smile, it would be wrong to show a snippet of flamboyance at this moment in time. I could later when I’m fucked on misery and a few bottles of table wine. They say it will rot my stomach. I know that, but I can’t afford expensive vodka. 
So what if I want to blacken my abdomen or cry tears into the bathroom sink, or throw upvomit with speckles of blood. It’s my frame, my temple of decay, it’s mine, all mine.        
I’m all set for a day of family values and sharing photographs of happiness. I’m ready to be ridiculed by the rich, I’m all set for the dramatic crying from the fake. 
My eyes are fixed. Not cut up by door keys. And I’m dressed. 
I stand outside waiting on the bus. A bus that comes by every hour. 
I open a packet of painkillers. I tear the silver foil and put two in my mouth, I then swallow with a swig of the whiskey. I’m addicted to them, those white, generic pills. They’re not used for the pain anymore. 
The bus doesn’t appear and begins to rain. The smell of garbage from the untamed bins starts to sicken me. 
I move on and start to walk through the crumbling, startling streets. The lampposts are covered in stickers of political slurs. The concrete is cracked and the hapless, uncaring junkies inject junk into their souls with ease in the open. 
I dismiss them and their plunge into the darkness. I need to keep walking, I haven’t got the time to look into the haze of the estranged and drugged. 
I keep going and going until a pain shudders through my left side. I place my hand there, trying to rub out the pain like an eraser. But, the agony begins to become ferocious, like a large brick has been placed upon my heart. 
The thumping, the pounding, the panic. 
I collapse amidst the roar and the junkies, the kings and queens of this swollen hive…. 
My eyes open suddenly. The noise of bleeping machines and people talking raises my interest.
The sheets make me itch. The smell of bleach is potent. 
The doctor enters the room and tells me I’ve suffered a massive heart attack and that one of the onlookers called an ambulance. 
He tells me I should change my habits and eat better. 
All I care about is the time. 
It’s already over. 
The day where I should have given my all. The day where I could have redeemed myself. Now, I’ve slipped onto the line between life and death. 
The doctor leaves me to ponder over my empty life. But then I bellow out to one of the nurses, asking if I could get a pen and paper. 
She agrees and hands me them. 
I write fast. I write in detail. I write myfeelings down like they matter. 
I fold over the paper and I get up from the bed. 
I take coins from my jacket pocket and drag myself through the hospital. The automatic doors open and the blow of fresh air is arresting. 
I’m out of breath but I get to the bus stop. The bus appears like a shot of hope. 
I step onto the bus and hand the driver the loose change. The passengers look at me strangely in my white robe. But I dismiss them and sit down on one of the hard seats.
And on it goes, the old, busted carrier that will take me to a resting place. 
The sky begins to darken, with the rain pouring. My eyes tire but I’m nearly there, I’m nearly there to orchestrate the final segment of an emotional day. 
The bus stops outside the graveyard. I step off holding my chest. 
The rain drops hit against the stones. I’m soaked through. 
I find the gravestone with my mother’s name imprinted upon it.   
The darkest day has arisen, there’s no jubilance in this situation, not enough words to say. 
I place the note into the grave like a droplet of my own blood.