The Last Bit of Beauty

I wiped my nose and it came away crimson. I swallowed and let the rich metal slide down my throat. 

I’ve never felt more alive. 

Dani pours the gas. Splashing it on the wall in glistening arches that dry gold on the brown walls. In the halo of silver lights that breaks through the dusty windows, this bloody home seem holy. The last bit of beauty in a world such as this. 

She looks up at me, brows in a crinkle. “Doing alright?”

I took the other jerry can and revel in the weight. “I will be.”

I head into the next room and soak the carpets and tile. The intoxicating smell of ethanol replaces the blood in my nose. The dirty brown couch and coffee table covered in needles and cigarette butts and ashtrays. Of afternoons wasted in coked hazes and dreams of nothing punctuated by euphoria.  I let that dirty brown sop up most of it and throw it away when drained. , the weight of it sagging just enough. 

I walk into the kitchen. This kitchen. Those hollow eternities and crystals forming in the bottom of destroyed pans. I step towards Holland, laying with his brains blown out. He waxed poetic with a knife and used chemistry to make love with the synapses. Now his eyes wide and dilated and hungry to consume what was left of life before the lights went out. 

I press my boot on his cheeks and press down. The fat on his jowl gives easy. The bone feels like it would too with a little more pressure.


My lungs feel sore again with the memory of struggling for breath. Hands around my throat. His teeth crimson with my boot kick.

I spit on him as Dani runs in.

“Let’s light it up!”

We rush out the door. Kiss it goodbye with a match. The flame flew into a rage instantly. 

I imagine seeing Holland’s face crumbling in and I laugh. 


Written 3/22/2020

I have no idea where this came from. The first line came to me during the sign and I knew there would be laughing and fire. Just casual Sunday thoughts leading to a Monday morn.

Blood, Ink, and Nightshade

I’m going to pick my brain a moment. Prick it with a pen until it absorbs the ink and makes something beautiful. Blood and black blending into deadly nightshade.

Creativity’s a tricky beast. It haunts you, stalks you, makes you feel. I’ve been lured in by its intoxicating scent for more than a decade now. I can track my life back through all that it inspired me to produce and the tortured things that never got the chance to grow.

Creativity slips away. Or that’s how it feels like sometimes. That’s how it feels now. I call but nothing answers. It doesn’t speak to me how it used to. My mind buzzes with the effort, my fingers go numb with the strain, my eyes drowned by the emptiness in front of me. I’m stalling. I flounder. Nothing works.

But creativity is only lost when you don’t chase after it. It never willingly came to me. It never put in the work to stay. Like a light in the dark, it shines brightly. It warms the room. Gives you comfort. You’re surer in your footing as you walk forward. But it vanishes just as quickly. Forces you to stumble and trip as you claw your way out of the abyss. You have to force yourself forward hoping the light will come to you again.

I hope that this small offering, this bit of effort, will bring it home again.

Photo Credit: elqu @ Wallhaven