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
crushed by loco motives and a runaway train
bottles in my brain tried to mute.