Rain and Reflections

(WPC: Mirror)

She was sitting on the chair that barely fit her balcony, her feet perched on the damp rusted railing. It had been raining since morning. She was onto her sixth cigarette and her first glass of whiskey, befuddled about whether or not she liked the rain anymore. Rain drops slipping down the glass window like their words that used to slip down her heart. Effortlessly. Some words used to scratch and claw at her throat as she would try to swallow them whole, like gulping down warm beer. Some words were like silk being dragged across thorns. Agonizing.

Her loneliness. That emptiness. That’s why she smoked. To fill those empty crevices that people left, with toxins. A splendid metaphoric reminder of how they took away her pieces and left her with nothing in return. Not that she wanted anything in return. Or maybe just love? Only love. Oh maybe she was asking for far too much, that silly girl. Who could have given her love? She was one glass of bourbon and one line of cocaine away from death. Hanging on to life by a thin string of her loneliness. That stupid girl.

Back to rain, so she kind of loved rain. It was an excellent accomplice to her demise. At least it was there as she cried. A perfect muse, to mask the tears.

But she kind of hated the rain, it reminded her of her solitary confinement within her own self. The way it would cover her feet with mud reminding her of how unclean her soul was. Fuck, she needed to drink more. She needed to drown her soul clean, even if it meant baptizing herself in poison. Rain was too pure for her. She was too contaminated to be cleaned by something so pristine. Maybe gasoline was a better option. Or even better, absinthe. She was meant for things like absinthe. Or rather things like absinthe were meant for her. That was the only thing that could handle the mourning in her every breath. Everything else was too feeble for her prowliness and too languid to supplement her solitude.

She was sitting on the chair, her legs crossed that once used to wrap around sheets so damn perfectly, her hair that once used to be gripped with conviction, her eyes that once used to reflect constellations, her lips that once used to bleed with passion. Now, everything seemed senile in that deafening silence that surrounded her. So she just smoked some toxins and drank some poison, and just hoped for the suffering to seep out of her being, pore by pore.