Frosty Costy...

The sky was black with cold air; creeping down my lungs as I approached the door. The gravel startled under my feet, like creatures alive, disturbed and annoyed. The strap of the bag I carried dug into my fingers and slowly turning and burning, while the bottles clinked with every step. The house was rumbling and mumbling with life, rustling inside behind the walls. I was greeted with the frail brown door, barely making it's way opened; open arms slid past me and a warm face against mine. Vivid words flowed out of the lips of the host, comforting, relaxing, securing. Arms slid away and the room opened up to me. People; sitting, drinking, talking what people do. Socialise. The light was soft, a warming glow over the furniture as it sat. The open air, filled with mixed aromas, soft smells of perfumes, sharp smells of cologne, sweet smells of sweets. The atmosphere was slow, calm with a twist of tension. Unfamiliar faces glanced over at me. Inspecting me. The host turned, poised, content. Her hand reached, and rested around my wrist, and lead me through a quick introduction to a flurry of faces and trudged along to the stone floored kitchen. My fingers reached and filled the gap of the fridge edge, I pulled, a jerk rocked and the door greased opened. Tray upon tray, the colours varied, bright reds, vivid greens, jet black, opaque orange. A self chuckled, only to realise that what I brought was a drop in the ocean. The fridge door clapped. The face of the clocked played games with me, as it ticked two seconds forward, it would tick one second back. The heart of the party wasn't exactly the youths, but the poison that would slowly reach into the blood stream and flow warm and freely through the veins of it's hosts. The poison was somewhat a need, a need to be consumed fluently to express how they feel. It tore down walls of fear, insecurity and age. Tequila; alluring yellow of poison, cold to the lips, hot to the core. The sinking burn radiates through the arms right down to the fingers and crawling to the ends of every hair follicle. The feeling strange, almost like an iron pressing out the creases of your body. It exhausts the body of stress and worries, only to let through the raw form of your personality. Your body fueled with love, with care, with all intentions to discover. You walk where you want to walk, you sit where you want to sit, you lay down where ever you want to lay. The world becomes yours, and you forget all that happens. The poison is not a poison without any drawbacks. It lingers in the blood and draws your body heavy, motionless and all that can be done is to give in, and let it consume you, engulf you into a senseless world where sound fades, drowned and ceased. The time burns, people slowly consumed, and overwhelmed. The body begins to reject the poison, reality hits hard, stumbling steps, opened hands spread from wall to wall, knees buckle. You're kneeling before a porcelain white bowl, your body automates. Your throat contracts, belly throws itself out, the taste unforgettable. The smell lingers in the air, but senses are numb, eyes droop. Concentration becomes non-existant and the floor, cold, wet, rough, becomes ubelievably comfortable.