Cliff Hanger

I am teetering on the unpredictable edges of stability tonight, clinging hard to the seductive possibility of the crisp simplicity promised by the next honest breath rhythmically stolen.

Familiar ghosts in unfamiliar locations prostitute out their secrets in the echoing tomb of another overnight introspection, busking themselves indiscriminately out to a perpetually disinterested crowd.  They linger obscenely in unwelcomed multi-part messages written in the peculiar genius code of unique failure, combining together to tell the greater story of a far lesser man.

A diaphanous curtain is drawn against the invasively embarrassed skeletons of my limited possibilities, so elusively unstable in their underlying structure.  My rotten and co-dependently interwoven musculature binds dishonestly upon that floundering foundation, holding disappointingly firm until ultimately bonding with achingly brittle bone to build the regrettably unstable outlines of a man falling fast.

And, I am falling.

I fell first in love.  But it was always with all the wrong hearts.  And almost always at the most inappropriate times.  Those miscalculations only fostered an already thriving distrustful nature, leaving me no choice but to lay the destructive groundwork for future failures because in matters of the heart, almost no one can be trusted.

I then fell into depressions, casting out a wide net of my calamitously communicative dispersions meant to anchor me on the solid shores of an evasive second chance.  But the words failed to somehow stick, leaving me drowning in the toxic tides of a turbulently raw and exhaustingly personal accountability.

I fell into bottles, inexpensive and easily acquired to temporarily numb the hurt, but that particular pain is seldom ever so temporary in nature.  It instead lingers and spreads unchecked, the cancerously dismal scent of a stubborn unwillingness to heal defining me in the rank and fetid stench of a failed lover’s slow decay.

I fell into the naked wilderness of my artistic abandonment, struggling to find the words that I barely understand through the distorted lenses of my indiscriminate sacrifices.  They often catch me unguarded and unfiltered, leaving me to pour them out haphazardly onto the blank page of a wanton totality, desperate to discover which ones might actually stick.

Too many falls over too many years leaves me fractured in my emotional exhaustion.  Carrying the damage across a karmic calendar marked neatly in finite regularity leaves me battered and drained, neatly defined by tallied marks and the slippery scars arranged diligently around the unpredictable schedules of my hesitant confessions.

And, she doesn’t deserve any of this.

She should be spared the inconvenience of another tick-tock whisper of a failing man’s last stand, hitting unexpectedly hard in the middle of another sleepless night.  She should be insulated from the blunt immobility of my contaminated soul, staunching the infection with me to keep her safe in a delicate sterility not often offered.

She is still clean.  I am not.  And that disparity is pushing me hard towards another inevitable fall.

About Grey Fox, fighter, lover, typewriter fanatic, and unrepentant Fenian bastard. Known to few, hated by many, but still typing the good fight.

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