"I'll cut myself open so she'll find her way home" I'll never forget that picture, her picture. Where her words bleed across the page, forming a time portal in my head. Echoing into eternity like the end of a punk rock ballad. I guess our story never really mattered. I think we both knew that. Our lives intersecting at the bar on the corner between our two universes. The sign flickering LED, a dive into one another. Alone we sat, staring at what we imagined were our reflections. Shot for shot we went, there's nothing like seeing the bottom of the bottle and knowing for sure that vodka does not taste like water. And just like the alcohol, our mouths never stopped moving. We spewed and spewed from our holes. Ain't it funny how so much talking sure sounds like white noise? A mind numbing buzzing. We wrote poems on those small square napkins, but those ran short rather quickly. We soon moved onto the walls, covering them like the graffiti on the mirrors of the bathroom. Covering the knick knacks of hurt, beating our memory out with verses. Fucking when we could, coming at one another with rabid angered lust. Dipping our fangs into one another, the taste of skin drove us mad. Slowly swallowing eachother whole. And time went on, and there was no more room for letters on the walls. Not even the lust between bathroom stalls could save us now. We fought We screamed We bled ourselves into pages Before long the mirror in front of us shattered, all that remained were those cracked panes of existence. Showing us that we were nothing less than equal versions of the other. Broken and scarred Jaded and helpless Hungry and haunted Past loves hung over us like the stench of death. Losing the last pieces of me within her, and she reminded me of the monster I am. But it's morning now and this one room escape is getting hot with summer air. Last call was fucking hours ago. She picked her wings up off the coat rack, Shaking them clean from the dust of us. It's quiet now, except for the pounding of this hangover. My mouth tastes like cigarettes and whiskey. She seemed fine, she'd been here before. Her wings carried onto destined horizon, even if she denied it. I'll always wonder if she remembered how to fly. Her wings sure were magnificent.
-Dive bars and broken angels -Emil (2/27/17)