Content warning: graphic imagery.


Hope feels warm leaving my body.
As it pools and dribbles up my left hand,
as it travels up my wrist,
as it fills in an open wound,
as the skin gash pulls back like a zipper,
as the razor blade moonwalks back over my skin,
as the blade shines off the bathroom mirror,
as the thumbs clumsily hold the blade at the 45 degree edge
as the edge turns counter clockwise.
I look up into the mirror,
the razor drawer closes.
I open the middle drawer
as a single tear slides up my face.
I don’t want to be here anymore.
The words fall back into my lips.
My cheeks are stained with tears and red.
My eyes are puddles, they drain.
I look away from the mirror.
I look deep into the mirror.
The spider web coils back.
My fist, irritated, pulls back like a snake.
The mirror laughs at me, like everyone.
My hands hug my pockets.
My teeth are ugly
I am a fat, useless man.
I stand.
My hands push off the dismal ground.
My bended knees straighten.
My eyes open.
The ground is cold on my hands.
My socks are grey
and keep me from slipping.
The mirror in the bathroom looks enchanting.
The light flicks on.
The light flashes off
as a sound of mixed sadness
pulls from my chest.
I am drunk off medication.
The cursed spirit exits my throat
it dances on my sweaty lips.
The pills on my tongue
pour into the medicine bottle
The bottle is childproof.
The clear liquid swirls around the glass.
The bottle gravitates onto the table.
The liquid travels into
the bottle of Jamison
The cap revolves like a backward record.
Displaced, placed back on
ruined wood.
I turn the switch on.
I stumble backwards
from the table to the bed
I try not to wake her.
I get out of bed.
I can’t sleep.
I graze the light switch with my finger
I feel lonely and can’t sleep.
my eyes flicker closed to open
from another
Everything goes backwards
to the beginning.


Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly. His third book, Train of Thought 2: Almost Home is available now.