The Great Escape

You drink so they can see you. You set fire to your lungs so you can see your reflection in the clouds of smoke that rise lazily from your lips. Just so you feel like you exist. Just so you feel like you're alive. And you know that by sunrise it'll be all over, like some damned Cinderella story. You know this, yet you need the escape so desperately that the moment - however temporary - is enough. 'Smoke some more, baby, it'll slow time and take your mind off things,' they pass you the joint. But what is it that you're running from? What is it that you don't want to feel? You stare into space and the feint sound of your friends laughing uncontrollably seems to be directed at your ignorance - the rejection of your own self. You reject the tears that are screaming to be set free with the plea 'Not today. Not in front of them.' But what's the use? You never want to be alone. You never want to go to bed sober in case your thoughts haunt your dreams. So you shut your humanity off like a vampire because your diary's overfilled with tear-coated pages, and tonight you choose not to feel. You embrace the false reality that this drink in your cup gives you - warm feelings from intoxication and a blissful, temporary escape. You whisper 'Hit me with another shot' as your hurt, and soberness, fade into the dark.