Accountability 1.0

It was always a mistake. Even from the very beginning, the sinfully unstable foundations of that initial connection were already cancerous and mortally flawed.  But when viewed through the lens of uniquely untrue promises and seductively whispered lies, I just could not see it at the time.  And that blindness nearly killed me in the staggering cost of a final tally made amongst boxes haphazardly packed and in the spaces in the web cleared to lure the next unsuspecting victim into the sultry trap of her beguiling deceit. I tried desperately to believe in a fantasy storyline that just was not there.  I naively struggled to build that parabolic castle on the shifting sands of her tumultuous desires, always changing and turning unpredictably in the currents …

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Trinity

I have been fighting the invasive rule of three all fucking night. Three packs of cigarettes neatly stacked, because I knew it was going to be one of those nights- the tickle came early- and I did not want to risk driving out into the world while incapacitated, just to feed the selfish demon of my earliest blatant addiction. Three glasses poured before I could even stomach the idea of sitting down in front of this fucking typewriter. There was already an indication in my head just what kind of post this would devolve into and I needed a few pours of courage before ripping the wound open enough to let these words bleed out into the emptiness of another night stuck here is this mad …

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Empty Bottles; Broken Promises

  She couldn’t; I always did. But there was never any real choice involved.  There was no enlightened resistance possible when caught in the gravity spiral pull of another night dragged into the swirl of her booze-fueled disconnect. It was always premeditated.  Our paths, and our roles, were predetermined long before we ever began that final heated collapse on a cold Christmas morning, ultimately leading us into just more miscommunication in a chain reaction disaster of conflicting intentions. It was just more indignity shouldered with bending back, watching her kissing the bottom of yet another fucking bottle.  Or several.  Stolen or purchased with sticky change salvaged from underneath wedged cushions- it never really mattered to her. Because to an addict, it always tastes the same. But …

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Only Quitters Quit

DISCLAIMER:  I am fine.  No need to text, call, or post.  Just another dark night of the soul spent inside my head within the confines of this City of Wayne.  And I’m getting the demons out in the most transparent manner available to me.  Because fuck secrets.  But if you, or someone you know, is currently struggling, there is no shame in reaching out to the N.S.P.L: 1-800-273-8255. There are seldom healthy choices left to make when drowning unsupervised in the exhausted collapse of another bottle’s last splash. There are usually just invasive regrets that linger in the shadows, as the day inevitably surrenders itself over to the dark, an opaquely familiar and dependable foe so persistently insistent in its tick-tock regularity. The steadily irregular rhythm …

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Spaghetti Western Dinner

I am constantly burdened by the persistence of memory. Reticent voices long discounted still ring hard in my head, echoing in the abandonments of singular infections still festering.  Silhouettes of possibility linger stubbornly in the tenuous fringes of a near total artistic collapse, refusing to budge from the balcony view of my corruption.  Shadows of former glories undocumented shatter the steady focus of consistency, poisoning the well and tarnishing the intentions born of unavoidable confrontations. I carry the balance of experience across the swamps of my confusion, struggling to gain solid footing in a world that just keeps shifting in its decay.  I crumble under the weight of my definition unfairly gained in the heated fling of unexpected disagreements.  I constantly exude the stink of predictable …

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