Blackest Bile

I stopped at this gas station, you know the kind—flickering lights and a bathroom straight out of a cheap horror movie. I stumbled in, feeling like death warmed over, and promptly tossed all the bitter bile in my stomach out into a toilet that probably hasn't seen a proper cleaning since 2006. Bought some flowers, these sad, wilting things from a plastic bucket by the register. Because I wanted forgiveness. I know you move with purpose somewhere out there. I know cars rush by like blood through veins. And I know all I do is trace the raindrops on my car window with my fingertips as they race each other down the glass. I'm not a part of it. I never had a competitive streak. I'm too busy being shackled to the endless loop of thoughts that spiral downward like piss down a sewer. And I know that's not good enough.

Flowers on the passenger seat, stand-ins for you. Engine purring like a content beast. I pull onto the road, flowers bobbing with every bump. I start talking. "Look at you, sitting there all innocent. Like you didn’t just watch me fall apart back there. What if I crash into that family sedan up ahead? What if I swerve into that biker, send him flying? Would you be happy then?" The thought took root, festered. It took everything I had to steer myself home in one piece.

I walk into my apartment with the flowers. And introductions are always needed. "In the fridge, there's a carton of milk slowly turning sour. That's me," I say. "A half-drunk bottle of wine sits on the counter, turning to vinegar. And that's you. I thought things were getting better. But you can't outrun the physics of this thing."

The voices from the TV chatter like frenzied birds in a storm. A laugh track punctuating jokes, always tells me what to do. What to laugh at. What to feel. And it comforts me. I want the TV to tell me if there is a place for me beyond these walls. I want the TV to tell me if you'll ever forgive me. I flip through channels like pages torn from a diary, searching for a reflection of myself in the flickering images that dance across the screen. But each face I see is a stranger's, each story a narrative that unfolds without me, leaving me stranded on the sidelines of this thing. That doesn't look awfully like me. That face there. But I could imagine looking like that. Being that. Wearing a denim jacket. A laugh track always punctuating my lowest moments. 

I know you move with purpose somewhere out there. And you don't need the laugh tracks to know when to laugh. You don't need the TV to tell you who you are. You are not a wilting bunch of flowers from a gas station that smells like gasoline and bile. You're a beautiful thing, a predator, always on the hunt. And you caught me, didn't you? You did. And then you left me here, alone. Not even laughing at the jokes, but at the laugh tracks. Always getting it wrong.