moments between living and dying

I’ve heard all about the ways
we should have lived better,
could have
been
less bitter,
and would’ve withered like
December daisies.

I’ve felt
the chafing of
regret on my elbows,
retrospect to knees.

I’ve ridden the bicycle of cease and desist, only to
crash down its vistas;
engaged in trysts only
good for
the ticks that
fed upon me.

I was a lost cause,
my autopsies
premature,
since I prefer to
be cut open following
my death.

I live for the best,
cocaine and
bounced cheques,
scaling mountains with
less guaranteed
descents.

This is my fenatyl,
top billing dressed
to kill,
and the
highs’ve never been
a hindrance,
but something
more kindred than
being told how to
make a
fucking
dent in
my
inevitable expiry.

Firing on every cylinder,
I was heavensent
to living
fast.

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