Writing 'Burning Wichita' Makes me Drink

I finish the story. I grab the rum. I take one, two, three, four, five--pulls from the bottle. I stare at the screen. Using a backdrop that's heavily autobiographical and then killing people close to you through fiction is a misery machine. Rachel came over. Then Zach. Then Jessica. My life seems to be seeping into suburban formaldehyde. I only hang out with couples. I seemingly can no longer be myself. I have to put on this painted grin and pseudo-optimism to keep everyone comfortable. One day away. One day away from hitting the drink with fervor and hopefully putting this shitfest on its funeral pyre.

Wetting the Ash

The trial behind--now to put feet forward on busted pavement--at this point we stare at the smoldering remnants of the brink we tasted. We've wet the ash with our tears, and now we seek to rebuild ourselves into crystalline sweetness. She hasn't said anything while I smoke, I haven't said anything as she obliterates mango sorbet. A compromise, a relief--of the old fires--an exhale, a release--in preparation for the next field to give up. Friday we aim to take party pills, get drunk, get confessional, collapse in the lawn outside my apartment and wait on responsibility to have its way with us.