Shot glasses of your ashes before you’ve been burned. Served up to you in a dingy bar, stinking of beer and piss and false promises and lost lottery tickets. At first you think it’s cigarette ash. But then you’ll look closer and see chunks of bone with your face etched on them. And you’ll ask for another shot – something different. But surely this can’t be right because the ash keeps being served up; crunching against the inside of the glass like fingernails down a chalkboard.
Your sweaty ass slides inelegantly off the vinyl. You look at the blonde at the pool table with her ass in the air, chalking up her cue, then gently blowing on it like she could blow you off your feet. You fall in love ten million times a minute, wanting to lash yourself to her slim thighs, but you turn back to the bar and it’s lined with shots – shots of your ground-down bones, melted organs, nails and teeth. Because it’s just ash. And it’s you.
I don’t understand why you don’t like
being thrown around
like talcum powder.