i sit here sipping my beer. i hestited, whether or not to drink, fighting the impulse to just feel some sense of relief. or maybe a deeper sense of being with my self, my inner self. my true self.
sip. the gentle feeling of fuzz enters my brain. i grope the bottle rudely and take a deeper swig. from the eyes of a former alcoholic, the bottle looks too tender. too delicate. i am reminded of a woman who is too prudish to let herself be swept up by passion, and in the moment, misses her chance.
my eyes fall.
in longing. perhaps?
there is a dream that hesitates on the horizon of my consciousness. it skitters there, nervously, unsure of itself or of the long, narrow path it stands on.
if i were never to bare my soul, then i would die.
there is no use for living. trapped. canned. buried in a mock of a shell.
i’ve cleansed myself, but the dirt ever finds its way beneath my nails.
they shimmered once, clean and clear.
bile gathers. there is no escape from myself.