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…