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[Short Stories] Fresh Air
by Nikki RiceI've woken up with this god damned dirt under my fingernails for the last time. This god damned dirt, if you understand. All these people bring their slime everywhere with them, smearing it all over the place. They pass it on to others, like a case of the herp, but without even that tiny satisfaction that is an orgasm or revenge or happy-go-ignorance.
I scrub my hands with acid every morning. My fingers are bubbled and bloody sausages.
It's in my lungs, too. The air here is like mud. Manure. Shit.
Today I packaged my whole life and sold it to this naive little girl. She gave me a few hundred dollars for my chance, thinking she could use it more wisely than I. I told her I wanted to help her get a good solid start, when in my heart I hope that she will fail even more miserably than I have. With that thought, I added a little of my own slime to the mix. I felt no release, though.
Now, as I head for the hills of my past, I understand why so many others leave here as well... it is not because they've moved on or grown up or given it their sadly disappointing all; it's because they can't stand the filth in their pores.
Vanity wins again. 04/03/2007 Posted on 04/04/2007
Copyright © 2025 Nikki Rice
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Coleman Demiurge on 04/04/07 at 05:57 AM Yeah, vanity actually has quite an impressive little winning streak going - persistant, for sure. Anyway, an excellent... whatever this is, I liked it anyway. "Happy-go-ignorance" and "given it their sadly disappointing all": - I like those lines; I liked all of it. It's exact purpose, I do not know because, well, I didn't write it, but nevertheless, very, very nicely done. |
| Posted by Laura Doom on 04/06/07 at 05:50 PM Oh shit - I forgot to get wasted...excruciating, for want of a more apposite euphemism. Like Coleman, I like some of the plays you do make with language (clichés as a resource etc.) Do you ever read Gabriel Ricard's stuff? |
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