143
I'm sorry 11 times over and doubting my future - if I have one, and I don't think I do - and I didn't mean to lead you on so well you thought I could actually do something with myself.
I am waking up each morning to an empty bed. Every morning, watching the same empty buildings dragging by, filled with the same empty people with the same empty lives, on the same empty buses driving the same empty roads, I can feel pieces of my empty soul drifting away, and in my empty bed, there is no solace.
I'm drinking my way to an early death.
No one ever warned me that growing up would be the battle between the razor and the bottle, and I would be the loser. I'm losing more every day. How long can I live like this? (How long can I live at all?)
I feel empty. Not old-souled. And I am left with ink and overdramatis and scars on top of scars.
This is Judgement Day and I have found neither respite nor repose; my lips are dripping words like blood, and my teeth are broken, cutting my tongue each and every time I try to speak.
I am at home with the snakes and the lepers, the drug addicts and alcoholics, the fools and the people who made mistakes too many times, and I will never be so blessed as to be the saint among them.
I am part of that small collective of people who would rather die than open their eyes one more morning to the fistfights with the mirror and the scale. We try so hard to be sincere, and fall short every time.
I've spent my nights crawling into bottles and my days crawling back to what I said I did not need.
I am wasting my words. I've said all this, when all I really needed to say were two words:
I'm sorry.
Pray for me.
I am waking up each morning to an empty bed. Every morning, watching the same empty buildings dragging by, filled with the same empty people with the same empty lives, on the same empty buses driving the same empty roads, I can feel pieces of my empty soul drifting away, and in my empty bed, there is no solace.
I'm drinking my way to an early death.
No one ever warned me that growing up would be the battle between the razor and the bottle, and I would be the loser. I'm losing more every day. How long can I live like this? (How long can I live at all?)
I feel empty. Not old-souled. And I am left with ink and overdramatis and scars on top of scars.
This is Judgement Day and I have found neither respite nor repose; my lips are dripping words like blood, and my teeth are broken, cutting my tongue each and every time I try to speak.
I am at home with the snakes and the lepers, the drug addicts and alcoholics, the fools and the people who made mistakes too many times, and I will never be so blessed as to be the saint among them.
I am part of that small collective of people who would rather die than open their eyes one more morning to the fistfights with the mirror and the scale. We try so hard to be sincere, and fall short every time.
I've spent my nights crawling into bottles and my days crawling back to what I said I did not need.
I am wasting my words. I've said all this, when all I really needed to say were two words:
I'm sorry.
Pray for me.