Sometimes it's too much, the way the main theme from that trashy indie game Foggy's obsessed with turns to the taste of old Cheetos in the back in your throat stops being charming and starts making you want to vomit. And the vomit smells like navy blue swirls fighting for control, and you laugh because Taylor Swift's Red playing from the room two floors down sounds like butterscotch yellow. And the laughter turns to tears, and the salt tastes like those old socks under your bed.
And everything is burning and you can't stop. You're not sure you'd want to if you could. Because on days that aren't today, it makes everything real. And without her, you're so lost. You don't love her. You didn't even need her. But her voice was red spikes and her name was burning bitter peppermint and you craved the pain. You craved the idea that there was someone fucked uo enough not to leave.
You were wrong. He was right and you're not sure if he's Stick or Foggy or your dad and you're too tired to figure it out. Maybe it's a bit of everyone you've ever known. Everyone is the same on the inside. All of their blood smells like the color of the mac & cheese your Dad used to make on the day before a match. You don't want to die, just to block it out for a moment.
It's always so much worse when you're the pathetic bad-tired and not the post-hype good-tired. You're not going to sleep or meditate tonight, the buzz of the devil screaming through your veins, no amount of exercise enough to stop it from taking control. It's this insatiable passionate ache you'll never escape, the agitation controlling your every move. Maybe it's the real reason why you'll never be happy why they always go why you're always so alone and everything always hurts why won't it ever stop.
The girl in the dorm five rooms across the hall is breaking up with her girlfriend and their voices are orange and lime spears stabbing what's left of each other's remains, Foggy's having sex with Marci back in your room, and you're just holed up in the corner of the halls breathing into your sleeve, feeling up every prickly thread with your lips.
You wish he was here instead.