Dead Skin Under the Bed

I’m grabbing that lamp I got from my grandma’s house when she died, the green lamp with weird, white age spots around the base. I can’t fit the fucking thing in my arms while also grabbing my suitcase, my toaster, that stupid looking and ridiculously heavy paperweight my dad got me for Christmas last year.

Just because you suck at gift giving doesn’t mean paper is going to grow legs and run away, dad. Paper will stay in place with as little as a pencil, so why am I hauling this piece of shit with me, why not let the bank, or the government, or the rats deal with it? Because it might be a piece of shit, but it’s my piece of shit, and they can’t take that away.

I could just make more than one trip but when you’re pissed, time is of the essence and second looks make you even more furious. 

While I’m balancing these pieces of shit on my legs, trying to open my car door, the paper wait slams into my damn toe, which is dressed in nothing but the rubber band of my flip flop. 

Despite the anger welling deep inside me I do not scream out the F - word. Some part of me that’s still human knows the neighborhood kids should not witness this melt down. Somewhere inside of me I know it’s better to go out quietly.

I let most of the things fall to the ground. The human part of me sinks down next to them. The beast in me is screaming “FUCK” at the top of his lunges. The human is on the ground, letting silent tears roll down his cheeks, holding his toe, holding his pieces of shit, desperately trying to hold his home, which is empty except for the dead skin under the bed, the smears on the mirror, the marks on the wall from when he moved the furniture. It’s not his anymore, just an emblem of his human failures. Just a symbol of what he tried. The paper weight, in all it’s stupid glory looks up at the human like he’s an idiot and he knows it.