continuing to wake up

i woke up again; fuck me.
looking at my reflection in the mirror,
i’ve had another rough night;
how many more of these can i take
before the inevitable?

my brain is feeling it too;
a clump fuck of mush;
my heart is struggling to pump blood
through my tattered body.

then here comes Tricia through the front door
(i thought i took that key away from her…)
with a bag of recovery meds and a box of wine,
all of which were quickly consumed.

an hour later, after we fucked, i wrote this poem,
and then another, and another.
death isn’t as easy as it seems on the news.
let’s see if i wake up tomorrow.
Tricia didn’t wait around; i suppose i’ll see her tomorrow…

maybe.

Published by

jonathandeanrichie

Currently living in Vietnam, teaching English, fixing the world's problems.

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