He shouldn’t have taken it.
It was the craic, wasn’t it?
The crack.
Drug of choice.
Thing to do.
Everyone seemed to be having so much fun.
In that bathroom, that stank of urine, vomit and worse.
His life in the toilet, that’s for sure.
Didn’t want to be there.
In the mould, peeling paints,
and tiptoeing through
puddles of pathologists future samples.
Stuck in that space,
as a threesome got at it in one cubicle,
a guy heaved up his insides in the next,
and powder and syringes scattered the tiles.
His night on the tiles.
He wanted to be accepted.
Be hip with the in-crowd.
The beautiful people lapped on entrance,
sliding out of staff exits on stinking alleys.
Not so beautiful now.
He dreamt of the moment of acceptance,
drinking champagne in VIP roped areas,
while kissing a gorgeous IT girl,
hiding faces from flash of celebrity snapper.
Why was he feeling ropey as the ‘IT’ knelt in shit.
He never imagined his initiation would be like this,
they urged him to join them,
whole evening, bouncing off ceramic sink.
The craic of crack on the cracked tarnished mirrors
taken by the cracked.
Beneath strip lighting, without filters and photo-tweaking,
cosmetics melting, fillers and botox dissolving,
lives stripped bare,
the glaring ugly people.
He’d come too far,
even though he could see their inner reflections
against the hand mirror they held out.
He delved in, divulging his true face,
as everything became shadows around him.
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