Sunday Poison
I needed out of the house, period, or someone was going to get hurt. So there I was Friday night at a stranger’s birthday party somewhere in the sticks, and it should’ve been perfect. Good music, attractive people, free alcohol all night. But somewhere between the drinking and laughing I felt it coming. The fear. Berlin. The move. The leaving.
Not sudden. It crept in quiet and slow, the way those things do. The terror of disappearing. Not of dying—death itself doesn’t scare me. It’s the part after, the finality of not being able to play anymore. That frozen moment where you’re locked out. And leaving here, in some way, starts that freeze. Everything I have, everyone who knows me, it ends.
I hate it when I have too much time to think. The old ghosts leak in, sadnesses I thought I was done with, and suddenly you’re missing things you should be over. My iTunes didn’t have enough genuinely sad songs to disappear into. Only two things cut through: the Simpsons movie, which kept the dark out for a couple hours, and a postcard from Nicki up in Rügen. Sweet that she thought of me. And whatever she’s planning—freeing the girls, bringing some life back—I hope that bleeds into me a little. Especially on Sundays. That’s when it hits hardest. Sundays are the day I’m weakest against it.