Wednesday, August 22, 2012

I'm an Inane Fuck-Up and I Falsely Believe It Matters

My sobriety, that is.

As if there's a score card.

Quick, how long have you been sober?

Quick, tell me to fuck off. 

The details of my life have dwindled into a rusty barrel, brimming with the saliva of western movies' used chewing tobacco.  

The color of gasoline in the sun.

A dragonfly's wings.

The smell of musty attic, fraught with the voice of ghosts.

That condensed exhaust smeared onto snow. 

An after thought.

Tell me it matters.

That I can care.

Why is it we run from these thoughts even concurrent to having them?

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