Aftermath

I'm past the point of caring.  There are bottles on the floor, their lips still pungent with that night's cocktail of uppers and downers.  One's broken, the shards skewed across the floor, but I wear my shoes around this shitty apartment, so fuck it.  Let them sink into my soles and slice my itching skin.
I would buy a house, but there's no sense when there's nothing to fill it with.  Pictures?  Of Her?  A constant reminder of the only organic source of happiness my life's ever known, the light of my life defused like pulling the top of a handgrenade.  Watch the bomb detonate; I can still hear the ringing in my ears.  These days even my stash barely sets me straight.
Forget high.
I just wanna tread on a numb middleground.