There are moments where I think it can't get any worse, won't get any better, I can't feel any more loneliness. And then I'm here. Alone, on this couch, in this room, in this world; alone. It's the alcohol in my system. It's the short, sharp gasping, the long, deep moaning. That metal frame up against the thin wall and there will never be enough to keep out all this noise. Like static to my ears, they fuck, I bleed, I cry, and no one's there to hear me.

That sweet acidic splash against my throat, I call out, she calls out, but she has a name. What would it be like to hear myself proclaimed in a moment, flesh against flesh, instead of strangled back in my own throat, a forgotten memory, a word left unsaid.

Quickened; my heart racing now, giving up my ghosts; it's cold. Unfeeling, their sharp intake of breath, their building of pulses blurs against the background of nothing, just my own breathing, my own pen against paper, a door left unlocked separating me from the things I could be. What I could see. The names I could scream.

I need something to call this empty place inside, before I lose sight of what still remains.