You know what it's like.

It's when you wake up in the morning and you don't quite remember drinking, and then you remember that oh yes-that long island iced tea did sit in there for awhile. And then you remember that you felt a numbness in your mouth long before that and you only ordered the alcohol to make that numbness go away.

But everyone knows that isn't the way it goes.

So you roll over, it's 11:03. Way too late to call in sick. It doesn't matter anyways; no one notices you're gone. You don't smell coffee because no one's there to make it; which strikes another scary thought.

Oh god, you're alone.

You're so alone that it's not even funny. But who even said you were laughing? You are so alone that when you fall asleep on your bed full of white and pillows, you are cold and bitter and lonely. You are so alone that you curse all the couples that may be rolling in the sheets or holding hands in the park. You are so alone that you curse your parents for even having each other. So you take one look at the Jack Daniels left over from three nights ago of the same sickness and you try to look away, but your hand grabs at it anyways. It's hot.

So you throw the covers off, you're wearing a pair of old sweats and an old tshirt that used to fit you when you were in junior high. It doesn't matter anyways, no one's even there to tell you to change. Your mouth feels numb; you've never quite figured out why. It's been like that for awhile. You take a sip of a brownish liquid, you can't really taste it. It just slides down your throat. It used to burn, but now it just feels like nothingness.

You hate alcohol.

The liquid slips out of your hands and your white sheets are stained with a mysterious shade of brownish-auburn. You can't feel a thing. You pinch yourself and you can't feel the pain and you can't even feel the pinch. A taste of yesterday rises in your throat, but it doesn't dare reappear once again. There's a dull pain in your stomach and your head reveals a slight roar of voices. You can't remember who they belong to, it may be you, but you can't quite remember what you sound like. You push it away, because it's so easy to push away.

Your eyes burn.

Jesus, you're crying. You never cry. You hate crying. It leaves you all, oh what's the word, oh hell. Oh yeah. Emotional. Jesus. You hate being emotional. And then when you try to rationalize why the hell you're even crying, you can't even remember.

Your body is limp.

You can't feel a thing because feeling escaped you years ago when you were once young and beautiful. Now you're limp and your limbs feel onerous. Your hand reaches up and tries to wipe away a tear, but you can't even do it without feeling like it's work. So you just lazily trace your fingers along the dresser, you can't even remember how you even got out of your stained bed, and you stare at the dust that's collecting. Your finger runs over the dusty table, and a needle lies there, boldly. Your finger accidentally runs over it. You're bleeding. The blood is on your dresser, on the needle, on your brush, and all over your finger. You suck on it, and you taste the saltiness.

You taste blood.

It's salty, yes. But it's almost sweet. Like sweet and sour pork you always buy at the little Chinese takeout place at the end of the block. It's tangy and tart, but it tastes so sweet too. So sweet and so thin. You search for a bandaid, a cloth, anything. But there's nothing. So your finger remains in your mouth, like a little kid, like regression.

Shutting your eyes, you sit back down on your virgin furniture, so white and clean and polished. You realize tomorrow's coming sooner. Oh god, tomorrow is today. And yesterday, you must've been thinking the same thing. And now it's already tomorrow. But it's too late to call it that, so now…it's just..today. Today is already here.

So your virgin furniture becomes stained with the sticky sweet red and your bed is already covered in the brownish nothing. And the room's spinning now, it's too white for your liking. Like heaven. So white that it's blinding and if you close your eyes, the whiteness burns through. You try to sit, but you can't. So you just fall, fall onto the white rug that used to lie on your feet and now it lies beneath your head.

Your hear a thump.

Maybe it was the door. Maybe someone has come home. But who calls this home? You don't even call it home. So you run, almost frantically to the door, with some newfound strength that you just didn't possess seconds ago. But no, it's no one. Just mail. So you sift through it and all you find are 'Dear Addressee's' and names that don't even closely resemble yours. You throw them aside and they cut you, and you remember that you were already bleeding. And now the blood is everywhere, staining everything, staining all the whites and the blacks and the yellows that so distastefully dot your house.

And then you lick your lips, feeling the numbness in your mouth still and tasting the blood.

It tastes sweet.

So sweet.