There’s a hair stuck in the back of my throat. After the first few weeks I was scared to death it would never dislodge, never go away… now I just accept it. We fool ourselves into believing in the idea of purity. There’s no such thing, there’s no such thing. I’m not entirely sure why I still feel a certain ache when I see you. I thought I was dead to most emotional traps that present themselves to the majority. I thought I was dead, period… you somehow made that whole idea seem hopelessly naïve. Why you? I’ve tried to suss it out in my mind but I can’t come up with an answer that satisfies me… maybe it’s that lie again, the purity lie. I somehow can’t seem to convince myself that you’re just as false as everyone else, maybe I just don’t want to believe it. You did come the closest after all, you did make me question everything I thought I was. I prop myself up with these slight distortions, playing with the pain… I’m not sure anymore. My fingers are just bloody stumps typing out non-existent rhythms on the keyboard, ground down to dull tips of bone, just blood and meat, just anything if I can feel it. When I do feel the slightest bit I run to numb it away. I’m a coward. I’m a fake. I’m everything I pretend I’m not and more. A spoiled little cretin of lust.
The bottle, the pipe, the bottle, the bottle, the pipe. Pathetic. I’d like to actually be honest with myself but I just can’t let my guard down. I can’t seem to gather the requisite courage. I’ll probably waste my entire life running from myself, my thoughts, my true thoughts. I’ll probably always hide inside a bottle, at the bottom with the backwash and the ashes. I have a system, I can pull certain things from this place… but I’m tired of those things. They’re ersatz, they’re compromised and counterfeit, products of chemicals and herbs. Some abstract scream for sincerity, some closure for the fabrications of my intellect. I’m in that bottle now, I have been for years. Funny how things work out. Almost pre-ordained. A self fulfilling prophecy stuffed down the barrel of a gun. A leper, lost in a cornfield, crying his eyes out.
