That famous day in November

I'm sitting by my window watching other peoples' fireworks. I don't kid myself that I'm part of anything. The pain in my stomach is back. I'm not sure it ever went away. I think that I am slowly coming apart. That the things that were once fixed inside me have come unmoored. I’ve swallowed the tablets before I realise I’ve swallowed them. I stare at the drink in my hand, the sensation of pills slipping down still fresh. They never really work. Taking them is an exercise in pointlessness. Outside, the tar sky is dotted with points of light. Not stars. Gunpowder. In blues and greens and reds.