Homie’s too attached to past memories that look like all the birds he’s sweating now. Ella looks like she’s more Mary Magdalene before salvation than someone he wants to take back to home to mom. Those circles under her eyes are the same color as the ones that dot her arm are the same as the eastern sky at sunset. Todos los Reyes no tienen enough dinero to pay for that royal purple. Regardless, homie doesn’t care. ¡¿Do you, you love sick maricón!? Nah, El is too wrapped up inside his head staring at the white inside the crimson in her eyes, and at the blue that hands out at the center. Blue is the best I can do to help you out with the color, but homie sees the shore of the lake, seaweed included, the green hue shining through the almost clean agua. If those ojos are the lake, then it explains the cloud on top of them, but homie sees no gleam. He notices the glare of of her honey golden hair, and how las nalgas de ella bounce like lo-lo’s when she walks. She comes up to his scarred chest, and he only knows because after ten minutes his balls finally dropped and at this late night drug spot he took a walk over to her.
Honey had finished with the dealer in a lonely back room of the apartment (dude laid sweaty on the floor, more sucio than the rest of the room) and walked past the piles of basura towards a broken drywall panel. As she fumbled with a tourniquet, homie mustered up the courage to chase a little dragon with honey on his left. I thought homie looked pretty feo, his acne ridden skin turned into a lunar surface ever since puberty ended. He was lighter than the rest of la raza, a coconut turned inside out, white on the outside, brown underneath, and in the room filled with three junkies he looked more nark than down. He had a habit that would go unnoticed under his button downs and tight jeans. Business casual. So you can imagine the sight of this fancy fuck of a dude tying off honey’s arm. Yeah, he tied the knot and cooked the poison for her. And ella thanked him slowly once she had kicked off. Homie está enamorado. Homie es un tonto.
Numbers were exchanged, although they always met at the same spot. That dirty apartment where the bloodstains multiplied at the same rate as las cucarachas. She offered homie only seconds, sloppy and undignified, but he was a romantic and only wanted to sit by her side. He brought up possibilities of checking out a restaurant, eating food that didn’t come from a bag or microwave. She’d like that, I’m sure, pero the hunger wouldn’t come and even if she could feel her stomach she wouldn’t be able to get food past her swollen tongue. Homie wanted nothing more than copping a feel, but the gentleman in his head beat the vandal in his heart. As her sunken cheeks leaked streaks of shining drool from her bobbing head, as her shoulders lacked the strength to hold her arms up under her neck, and as her skin paled to match the powder (keeping the same piss yellow tint), he wondered what she felt like between the thighs.
Swallowing the violent images of her tied to a bed, fresh wounds slashed across her stomach, her toes curled and back arched in éxtasis, homie took a rain check, packed up his vice and left.
Not granting innocence, porque no one is, homie cut up lines of chiva and coats his sinuses. Eyes wide he lies on his couch, smelling the cleaning products he uses in the studio, trying to keep a sense of order. The piercing cut of the bleach would burn most peoples tear ducts, but not this dude. A bottle of Clorox comes second to only the dust. Don’t look directly into any surface of este piso or you might catch the reflection of your inner demons. His neurosis is another issue, and if homie stopped lying to himself he might be able to face it down. You could figure shit out, homie, if you laid of the junk. A stupid fucking word for your stupid fucking drogas. ¡Vete la chingada y tu caballo tambien! But I digress. The apartment in question is whiter than a junkise complexion and the leached tile floors make your footsteps sound unclean. The furniture is sparse and it’s just as white as everything else; the one couch sits awkwardly close to the useless TV (cable costing more than a half filled plastic baggie). He slept on the couch not having room for a nest to rest in. Homie sleeps only in appearance; closed eyes and heavy breathing, lack of consciousness, but a total lack of dreaming. And he rises from the dead like Jesus after three hours, puts another ironed shirt on and heads out to his nine to five.
Homie mans a forklift for a living. His ears are never ringing, because to the higher ups he’s just a number and a paycheck, one who will cycle out for a fresh face after he grows tired. They all do. You would too, if you spent a year lifting spare parts for someone or another. The boxes all look the same, and he follows a color code, yellow goes to the back, green is to the left, but brown is all anyone really ever sees. Homie spends half his day driving around a warehouse, breaks to have a cigarette, then spend the second half doing the same thing. One day a little while ago homie decided to start dipping into his stash at work. Fuck it, he thought, no one would notice if I did. So he’d suck a little into the length of his smoke, and let it smolder on his lunch break and give him some relief. The pack was half empty and so he would tuck the rest inside of the box, then hurry outside and suck down whatever he could. Most days he went unnoticed but today was different.
I could see it coming, and homie should have too, but as he enjoyed the burning opiate his boss came outside. The ball of a man had no way to differentiate his top from his bottom half, and his thin comb over was starting to reflect his other curvatures. Chiseled features were a dream, and hombre was long past them, nightmares of a failing marriage taking up too much of his time. Underneath his beet red face was pain from a miserable life, divorce, and undiscovered cancer, and this all showed itself outwardly when he talked with those below him on the totem pole.
“What the fuck is that smell?” El jefe demanded with full knowledge that it was something that would end in termination. Homie was about to say nothing and pitch the evidence, but the boss snatched it out of his mouth. Too doped up to snatch it back homie stared in amazement as el jefe busted it open and saw the powdered remnants. A brush of yellow powder dots the fat man’s sleeve, and homie fumbled with his pack, dropping the bag onto the pavement.
“You’re doing drugs?” This was a statement, not a question. But homie just grabbed the stash and ran as fast as his stoned legs could move. Dude looked like a drunk with even less coordination, and his zigzag pattern across the parking lot was punctuated with el jefe de grasa screaming “If you ever come back here I will call the cops!” He would have called them then if he could remember homie’s name, but that’s what the office life teaches you; only watch out for number one.
The drugs wore off after the run and a couple hours sitting in his white apartment. The white walls were so bright, and homie couldn’t stand seeing his reflection in the countertops, in the mirror, or in the dead-screen TV. The situation hit him, with his shit brown eyes popping out of his skull, that he had no source of income, and not only did he have bills to pay, but he had a habit to feed. He clutched the last of the eight ball he had tucked inside his pocket, and decided that he should get as much as he could before he defaulted. As he walked to the drug den, his fingers on the plastic, he spat in the dirty sidewalk. Not because he needed to, only because he could. The control made it easier to deal with the downward spiral. The neighborhood started to change, and instead of storefronts he saw cages keeping out the looters and the transitorios. The sounds of people died out, leaving only a couple sirens, and as he found the familiar drug spot he thought about the girl with the honey colored pelo. She would be in there, sucking dick for a dime bag, her bruised knees sitting next to a syringe and a lighter. She would come out of the back, and toss her honey hair before setting those blue ojos on him and resting in a corner. She would trace the porcelain of her skin up until the curve of her elbow, around the spotted fleshy spot and up onto her bicep. The loose skin around her shoulder would be begging to be brushed by his calloused hands as he tied the belt around her. He would ask her to go out to dinner, hoping for a buena noche after, but she would be off in another world and he would leave disappointed. This time would be different, he thought to himself as walked the stairs, a new fire in his eyes. He opened up the door and saw the dirty walls, covered in more blood than normal. He looked around the apartment, at the junkies in the corners; not a single one was breathing, and their chests were riddle with holes. There was a sound from the corner, and he saw honey sitting there, teeth clenched, holding her arm. You or I would be more cautious, seeing the bullet holes everywhere, but homie isn’t like us. No, hemos un poco sentido. Pero homie was still love sick, and blind to the gun resting on the floor.
“They tried to take my fucking stash. Those fucking assholes. They tried to take it while I was shooting up. I tried to stop them, but shit got out of hand. I just wanted to fix, man. Then all this shit started happening, and dude came out of the back waving his fucking gun. I don’t know what happened, I have no idea what happened. I just grabbed it…” Honey said the last sentence six or seven times, before homie stood up and moved away from the poisoned girl. Her sick sense of priorities reminded him of his own, and he kicked away the gun still looking at her arm. A ripped open abscess was leaking a viscous fluid, rojo y amarillo trickling down in a chunky stream. It was ripped open by a needle and now the apartment was in ruins. Homie was over it. He had perspective. You have perspective homie! Time to shape up! ¡Felicitaciones! He dug the bag out of his pocket, flipped it to the wounded bird (her one working wing was still clutching the other) and walked out. He walked down the street, past the dead shops, past the crack heads and drug dealers. He walked until he came to his sterile house, pulled out the bottle of bleach, and cleaned until he passed out.
Then he dreamed.
Honey had finished with the dealer in a lonely back room of the apartment (dude laid sweaty on the floor, more sucio than the rest of the room) and walked past the piles of basura towards a broken drywall panel. As she fumbled with a tourniquet, homie mustered up the courage to chase a little dragon with honey on his left. I thought homie looked pretty feo, his acne ridden skin turned into a lunar surface ever since puberty ended. He was lighter than the rest of la raza, a coconut turned inside out, white on the outside, brown underneath, and in the room filled with three junkies he looked more nark than down. He had a habit that would go unnoticed under his button downs and tight jeans. Business casual. So you can imagine the sight of this fancy fuck of a dude tying off honey’s arm. Yeah, he tied the knot and cooked the poison for her. And ella thanked him slowly once she had kicked off. Homie está enamorado. Homie es un tonto.
Numbers were exchanged, although they always met at the same spot. That dirty apartment where the bloodstains multiplied at the same rate as las cucarachas. She offered homie only seconds, sloppy and undignified, but he was a romantic and only wanted to sit by her side. He brought up possibilities of checking out a restaurant, eating food that didn’t come from a bag or microwave. She’d like that, I’m sure, pero the hunger wouldn’t come and even if she could feel her stomach she wouldn’t be able to get food past her swollen tongue. Homie wanted nothing more than copping a feel, but the gentleman in his head beat the vandal in his heart. As her sunken cheeks leaked streaks of shining drool from her bobbing head, as her shoulders lacked the strength to hold her arms up under her neck, and as her skin paled to match the powder (keeping the same piss yellow tint), he wondered what she felt like between the thighs.
Swallowing the violent images of her tied to a bed, fresh wounds slashed across her stomach, her toes curled and back arched in éxtasis, homie took a rain check, packed up his vice and left.
Not granting innocence, porque no one is, homie cut up lines of chiva and coats his sinuses. Eyes wide he lies on his couch, smelling the cleaning products he uses in the studio, trying to keep a sense of order. The piercing cut of the bleach would burn most peoples tear ducts, but not this dude. A bottle of Clorox comes second to only the dust. Don’t look directly into any surface of este piso or you might catch the reflection of your inner demons. His neurosis is another issue, and if homie stopped lying to himself he might be able to face it down. You could figure shit out, homie, if you laid of the junk. A stupid fucking word for your stupid fucking drogas. ¡Vete la chingada y tu caballo tambien! But I digress. The apartment in question is whiter than a junkise complexion and the leached tile floors make your footsteps sound unclean. The furniture is sparse and it’s just as white as everything else; the one couch sits awkwardly close to the useless TV (cable costing more than a half filled plastic baggie). He slept on the couch not having room for a nest to rest in. Homie sleeps only in appearance; closed eyes and heavy breathing, lack of consciousness, but a total lack of dreaming. And he rises from the dead like Jesus after three hours, puts another ironed shirt on and heads out to his nine to five.
Homie mans a forklift for a living. His ears are never ringing, because to the higher ups he’s just a number and a paycheck, one who will cycle out for a fresh face after he grows tired. They all do. You would too, if you spent a year lifting spare parts for someone or another. The boxes all look the same, and he follows a color code, yellow goes to the back, green is to the left, but brown is all anyone really ever sees. Homie spends half his day driving around a warehouse, breaks to have a cigarette, then spend the second half doing the same thing. One day a little while ago homie decided to start dipping into his stash at work. Fuck it, he thought, no one would notice if I did. So he’d suck a little into the length of his smoke, and let it smolder on his lunch break and give him some relief. The pack was half empty and so he would tuck the rest inside of the box, then hurry outside and suck down whatever he could. Most days he went unnoticed but today was different.
I could see it coming, and homie should have too, but as he enjoyed the burning opiate his boss came outside. The ball of a man had no way to differentiate his top from his bottom half, and his thin comb over was starting to reflect his other curvatures. Chiseled features were a dream, and hombre was long past them, nightmares of a failing marriage taking up too much of his time. Underneath his beet red face was pain from a miserable life, divorce, and undiscovered cancer, and this all showed itself outwardly when he talked with those below him on the totem pole.
“What the fuck is that smell?” El jefe demanded with full knowledge that it was something that would end in termination. Homie was about to say nothing and pitch the evidence, but the boss snatched it out of his mouth. Too doped up to snatch it back homie stared in amazement as el jefe busted it open and saw the powdered remnants. A brush of yellow powder dots the fat man’s sleeve, and homie fumbled with his pack, dropping the bag onto the pavement.
“You’re doing drugs?” This was a statement, not a question. But homie just grabbed the stash and ran as fast as his stoned legs could move. Dude looked like a drunk with even less coordination, and his zigzag pattern across the parking lot was punctuated with el jefe de grasa screaming “If you ever come back here I will call the cops!” He would have called them then if he could remember homie’s name, but that’s what the office life teaches you; only watch out for number one.
The drugs wore off after the run and a couple hours sitting in his white apartment. The white walls were so bright, and homie couldn’t stand seeing his reflection in the countertops, in the mirror, or in the dead-screen TV. The situation hit him, with his shit brown eyes popping out of his skull, that he had no source of income, and not only did he have bills to pay, but he had a habit to feed. He clutched the last of the eight ball he had tucked inside his pocket, and decided that he should get as much as he could before he defaulted. As he walked to the drug den, his fingers on the plastic, he spat in the dirty sidewalk. Not because he needed to, only because he could. The control made it easier to deal with the downward spiral. The neighborhood started to change, and instead of storefronts he saw cages keeping out the looters and the transitorios. The sounds of people died out, leaving only a couple sirens, and as he found the familiar drug spot he thought about the girl with the honey colored pelo. She would be in there, sucking dick for a dime bag, her bruised knees sitting next to a syringe and a lighter. She would come out of the back, and toss her honey hair before setting those blue ojos on him and resting in a corner. She would trace the porcelain of her skin up until the curve of her elbow, around the spotted fleshy spot and up onto her bicep. The loose skin around her shoulder would be begging to be brushed by his calloused hands as he tied the belt around her. He would ask her to go out to dinner, hoping for a buena noche after, but she would be off in another world and he would leave disappointed. This time would be different, he thought to himself as walked the stairs, a new fire in his eyes. He opened up the door and saw the dirty walls, covered in more blood than normal. He looked around the apartment, at the junkies in the corners; not a single one was breathing, and their chests were riddle with holes. There was a sound from the corner, and he saw honey sitting there, teeth clenched, holding her arm. You or I would be more cautious, seeing the bullet holes everywhere, but homie isn’t like us. No, hemos un poco sentido. Pero homie was still love sick, and blind to the gun resting on the floor.
“They tried to take my fucking stash. Those fucking assholes. They tried to take it while I was shooting up. I tried to stop them, but shit got out of hand. I just wanted to fix, man. Then all this shit started happening, and dude came out of the back waving his fucking gun. I don’t know what happened, I have no idea what happened. I just grabbed it…” Honey said the last sentence six or seven times, before homie stood up and moved away from the poisoned girl. Her sick sense of priorities reminded him of his own, and he kicked away the gun still looking at her arm. A ripped open abscess was leaking a viscous fluid, rojo y amarillo trickling down in a chunky stream. It was ripped open by a needle and now the apartment was in ruins. Homie was over it. He had perspective. You have perspective homie! Time to shape up! ¡Felicitaciones! He dug the bag out of his pocket, flipped it to the wounded bird (her one working wing was still clutching the other) and walked out. He walked down the street, past the dead shops, past the crack heads and drug dealers. He walked until he came to his sterile house, pulled out the bottle of bleach, and cleaned until he passed out.
Then he dreamed.
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