A bad night
On good nights I make a cup of tea, plate two chocolate chip cookies1 microwaved ten seconds each. I'll read a little bit or write on my blog. Play with my cats. Make a to-do list. Light a candle. Floss my teeth.
On bad nights I park in the drive, turn off the ignition and sit in the cold until my brain buzzes with silence. I read headlines about the end of the world or write worse poetry. I eat chocolate chip cookies straight out the Tupperware. I leave the kitchen light off so I don't wake up my wife, typing by the glow of the small bulb hanging above the kitchen sink.
Acid reflux from the cookies coats my esophagus in a sugary film; oxygen is bottlenecked at the back of my throat with a burning sizzle.
I latch on to intrusive thoughts like footholds jutting out from the cliff face of my own subconscious.
I want a cigarette. I think about the taste, the scrape of metal against my thumb as I flick the lighter to life and inhale death.2 I remember how heavy cigarette smoke feels in my chest, warm and comforting like a cup of tea.
On a bad night I look at my arm.3 The white scars become empty space to refill.
On a bad night I sit and stare at nothing until my eyes water.
On a bad night I don't floss my teeth. I don't even brush.