I started drinking…
… because my throat yelled it was the only option. But when I came up from that pillow of self righteousness, I found drowned, the children of my potential.
Now the voices, they keep me up at night. The staggering stain of my mistakes weighs on my bones and sores my body. I’m immobile in my feared state. I’m a sheet drenched in tears.
Tomorrow I will perk on a coffee rim, write until my eyes bleed and fingers grow weary. Not out of punishment, not to provide the death of so many hours with a respectable funeral, but to pursue a dream I could have easily not followed had I kept tipping glasses instead of fountain pens.
I claw at the sight of a seized opportunity. I scratch the blank paper with ink like a rabid dog, destined for the old barn.
I’m not fighting to be relevant.
I’m not fighting for the hell of it.
I’m fighting to make good on a promise.
I’m fighting to be the cure of a sickness I let in.