I was in the bathroom today. at school. remembering last year's st. patrick's day. it was in that bathroom i drank melon liqueur with devin.
Green, viscous liquid coated my mouth and throat, stinging and biting, hissing its way down to the straight drop. it fell. empty stomach, poured alcohol. acids combat. churning and slightly gurgling, little bits confuse my brain. hot, dizzy, tingling, spinning, buzzed. lighter and endorsed with flushed spots on cheeks.
Chuckles wait on lips, eager to be bounced against walls. eyes swim and faces search. ridiculous poetry is found and desecrated, modified, reinvented. ants bustle along, and we look out omniscient. they dont know what we do. they cant know. its golden power and secrets and swelling pride. we glance at people, grinning content, quick to retreat. to our safe place. our core. in the handicapped bathroom stall of the third floor C-building. leaning on a dirty sink and against a humid door.
This. free of consequence and responsibility and future. this is my self-fucking-expression. my masturbation and my performance art. for now. for this very moment when pipe cleaners and construction paper and safety scissors cant be grabbed.
and then i snapped back. grinned. shook my head. dried my hands and went to take notes on the two faces of andrew carnegie. a man that made a fortune because he wanted to ride in a carriage through the high road with his mother and feel pride and smug contentment.
