The good Youth

By Kayleen Ellis

I sit and stare at the bottle on the table. It stares back with equal emptiness.


I pop one in. Swallow. It makes my head blur and blend with my eyes, it kills every soft thought, but I guess it’s better than the alternative.

And I guess I’m going out.

Everything is rocking my mood like a pendulum. Parties are fun, could be fun, should be fun. There’s something appealing and communal about paying $5 for that blood red jungle juice, bodies in every geometric shape grinding together in a tiny concrete basement, each of us scouting for someone to bring a flush to our faces; to lock lips or—definitely—more.

Sometimes parties are just lonesome and loud and I leave early feeling like the fatty part of the meat no one wants to eat.

I go back home and sit on a couch stuffed for two. Three rums and I dumb myself into a pathetic pile of black, white, and blue. There’s a warm buzz, and I believe it’s the alcohol. It’s tears, but I don’t stop them.

Because I’m selfish.