Fuck.

Pills.

Alcohol.

Nicotine.

More pills.

What have I done with myself?

I’ve failed, and I’m refusing to see it.

My body is afloat in the sea of surrender, and I don’t have the energy to try to keep my nose above the water.

Pills.

Alcohol.

Pills.

More alcohol.

Guilty, frustrated, lost, blank. Numb. Nothing. I can’t feel anymore. After wanting so much, wanting so badly to be fine, I’ve concluded: I won’t be.

I am lacking an instrumental component to be truly sober and sane.

There is something fundamentally wrong in my psyche and I can’t find it. I dig and dig but only hit nerves, striking new movements and new urges. I bury myself under neurons and firing synapses, losing consciousness in the club after the first taste of Oxy in years.

Alcohol on my tongue, burns on the way down. Fills my stomach with something close to satisfaction, closer than I’ve had in weeks.

The razor bites my hip, grips the skin and splits it open, pouring out the proof that I am alive, that I am a real human being.

Just drunk, drunk constantly and not wanting to feel. No motivation, nothing left. Drained without even the energy to attempt to kill myself.

I’m broken, broken and irrational. I need a stone, I need my rock. I need gravity to kick back in, because currently? I’m orbiting Mars in an attempt to find someone who understands me.

I don’t know if I’m flying or sinking, or if the pills and alcohol have created the perfect storm.. the most dangerous mixed episode believable.

Surging through my veins, bleeding from my every orifice, the desire to feel.. the desire to be.

It’s denied.

Pills.

Nicotine.

Alcohol.

More pills.

Eventually, I’ll need something harder. There’s only two ways out, kid, up or down. You choose your own adventure. Up or down. Fight or die. Flight or flee. Feint or faint.

Fuck. That. Noise.

Static, white static, white noise buzzing in my ears, stinging my tongue, filling my throat. There are no words, there is no one else. It’s my, myself and I, standing in the top floor of the building wired to implode in any minute.

I am broken.

I am these things, these shards that prick and slice with every graze. I am these echoes of lost dreams, obliterated into distant memories. I am the footsteps down the hall, I am the dread as the telephone rings in the middle of the night.

I am fucked.

I am drunk.

I am high.

I am sorry.

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2 thoughts on “Fuck.

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