That Black, Starry Night
in mid-July, will always
stick with me. The air
was thick and humid from
the afternoon rain.
The stars shone overhead,
twinkling, each lightyears
away, yet seemingly so close.
The grass in the field a few
blocks from my house was damp,
radiating life into the wet, humid air
The trees rustled as a warm wind
blew in, waking up the birds who
roosted within the tree’s warm grasps.
Cars slowly creeped by, illuminating the
street adjacent to the field with their bright,
glowing eyes, only for a few moments before
the dark abyss swallowed the light back up.
And then there was me, lying flat on my back,
my brain offline to repair damages it caused.
The prescription pills and alcohol raced for
who would kill me first. The blood seeping
from my flesh fed the earth and grass like a
river feeds an ocean.
Nobody knew I was there, dying
as people slept or watched television,
as the Black, Starry Night overtook me.
Not a single soul knew the pain I inflicted
upon my weary bones, not a single soul
knew the pain my brain was in as it
desperately tried to fix it’s home while
it went up in a fiery blaze of chaos and
confusion, like a child stuck on the top
floor of a burning skyscraper, unable to
quench the flames and save itself.
As the night receded and the sun’s crisp
morning glow came upon my form, my
brain finally put out the flames, awoke my
body, and came back online when, deep
down, it didn’t want to. Not a single person
noticed when I shulked down the road and
climbed back into my house. As I rested my
head upon my pillows and wrapped myself
in a cocoon of blankets, my brain tattooed
that Black, Starry Night into my eyelids,
so whenever I slept or closed my eyes, I
always saw how close I was to finally dying,
to finally ending the pain and aches that echoed
through my husk of a body, the bastard known
as my brain, and the pain I’ve inflicted on others.