SWARTHOS

The dope was a cruel joke, man, a limp handshake from some lowlife dealer who probably cut it with powdered regret. I tossed it in the trash, watched it scatter like the ashes of a bad dream. Now I’m alone, sprawled in this bed, the neon’s purple glow bleeding across the wall like some cheap Vegas fever dream. Just watched a goddess on YouTube, her voice a velvet knife, singing a song so beautiful it carved a hole right through me. But that kind of melody? It ain’t for me. No, my song’s a jagged, ugly thing—grit and rust, a howling dirge of unfulfilled hunger that no one’s ever gonna sing.

I’m stuck here, marinating in the ache of it all, the drumbeat of disappointment pounding in my skull. Every night’s the same: me, this bed, that neon hum, waiting for the sun to claw its way up and remind me I’m still kicking. Another day, another spin on this warped roulette wheel of desire and despair. Hell, I can almost taste the next letdown already.