The antidepressants help. They let me forget about the look of your lips grimacing. The tears wash down with the water splashed on my face, rubbed away with backs of hands still wet from the time before.
I’d stop and check but the hazard lights won’t turn on anymore. Precariously shimmy on the teetering edge. Making deals with whatever God you choose, else you fall in with the desperate clawing motions.
Fuck the rear view mirror! Let it fall if it wants to! Fucking pussy. White-knuckle that shit; don’t you dare close your fucking eyes on me.
The antidepressants make everything worse. Faded gray 80’s jean stone wash. Color blind plastic faces; little moldable dolls with their asexual genitalia. Or lack thereof.
It turns. Oh goddamnit it always turns. Constant effigy Halloween masquerades.
And the ringing. The constant fucking ringing. Be they jet afterburners or the crying. Perhaps even the sound echoing on the endless cascading hills of nothingness. Look up, look up.
I’d rather kill myself than let these antidepressants kill Joey Velasco. Give him the gun. Give him the reason.