/Roadkill:Dark Ramblings//

I’m sat in the pub, pint of beer in my hand that I’m enjoying but not enjoying at the same time//

/I want to be alone//

/I surround myself with people but it’s as if there’s an invisible wall around me, I’m encased in cotton wool, I feel angry and I don’t know why. I’m scared of my own company//

/So I’m sat in the pub with two friends who are playing on the playstation because god forbid there should be a place to socialise without some kind of alternative entertainment, and it’s fine because if they were trying to engage me in conversation I know I would just sit there in silence anyway and wish that I could be anywhere but here but this is the only place I can be at this moment in time//

/and the man sat on the next table with his back to me is shouting “eat it” at a girl who is flirting (maybemaybenot) with a different guy with two few teeth and a distinctive Manchester look shirt and jumper and mullet haircut and he wishes that he were in oasis or stone roses or something maybe he thinks he is already and the man with his back to me I can see his arse where his trousers need pulling up and people are being far too fucking loud and my pint tastes less and less like something I want to drink and it’s clinging to the back of my teeth and everything is too fucking loud//

/but there’s not enough noise I can still hear my thoughts dancing like hanging men or dandelion seeds at the corners of my mind I can only grab onto them for a few seconds before they’re wrenched from my grasp so more like hanging men my thoughts dancing at the end of a rope punching the walls of my skull with the strength of the undead wanting to break through to the air in front of me but they scream and groan in silence into an echo chamber until all I can hear is agony reverberating on the backs of my eyes I push them back push them back back back smother them likeunwantedchildrenpressdownuntiltheyturnblueinthefaceandsometimes I worry about the darkness in my mind and am thankful for writing because it releases the dark clouds of fungal spores onto the page instead of into the air where someone else could ingest them infect themselves with the kind of things that make you want to smash a glass into someone’s face just to make something happen//

/Fuck this//

/I hate this city//

/I love this city//

/I’m not here. The man is now leaning over and talking to my friends in slurred drunkenness and I want to tell him to fuck off to spit in his face to throw my beer in his eyes I hate him on sight what is wrong with me? Nothing. That’s the answer//

/Because everyone has roadkill thoughts. I just voice them on the page which somehow makes them more acceptable. I can frame my words with elegance and grace, with rhythm and imagery that makes the ink flow from my pen like water or blood, bleeding my mind and staining the page from vampiric white to empiric black. Or I can kick off. I can provoke and spit words onto the paper until every fucking scab in my brain is picked over and over again and the wounds weep freely, till the thoughts are mangled on the roadside, insides out and outsides in. Roadkill thoughts//

/Waiting for someone to claim what remains of them//


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