moments between living and dying

I’ve heard all about the ways
we should have lived better,
could have
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
since I prefer to
be cut open following
my death.

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

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
dent in
inevitable expiry.

Firing on every cylinder,
I was heavensent
to living


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