The Poker Face Chronicles

Twelve days since I balanced this bottle of pills against responsible use, a fork in the socket of perseverance.

Barely a week since any kind of faked coherence, but my disappearance from line of sight hasn’t rankled any feathers yet.

Six days since I stopped trying to forget and simply forgot. I’d tell you of the heartbreak wraught if I could recall what I wanted to purge, but those words belong to history now.

Ninety-six cycles of clockwise vitriol since I put misery down on coffee table coasters and realized I’ve let material happiness hold up my worth like crooked wood legs.

Forty-eight hours and I don’t want to brag but cat’s out of the bag, emaciated, holding onto poker faces for the love of rebirth, and no one suspects 

a fatal wound.

Last day in the life of my current incarnation, and it barely tastes doom’s umami, insanity’s natural climax, 

just a little bit of wonderful before I’m cut down in 

the crossfire of 

emotional commotion, 

crushed by loco motives and a runaway train 

aspirin

bottles in my brain tried to mute.

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