gush;

I’m not being honest with myself.

I haven’t been honest in anything I’ve written and spent

over the past few days: dilating. I’m especially not being

honest about my drinking, the devil I always let back in.

The cruel fucker. Oh, my little detour, my little devour.

Fatty liver inducement posing as the cardinal saint.

Bloodletting can begin at any moment.

I could’ve been so good at what I did.

(Hindsight is 80/fucking/20.)

Now I’m looking at ashes and bushfires and previous cinders;

could’ve, would’ve, should’ve smolder residue smeared on

all the walls: entirely flammable.

Why do I linger here?

“Don’t be so abrasive,” says the Critic.

“You’re only a traveling phase of memory.”

Oh boy, if only you knew how deep the knife cuts when I get going.

I’ll go back to 13 and chop at the decisions I couldn’t make,

take a detour at 19 and

oh joy, that song just came on—let’s fester at 25 again.

I better finish that novel by Ayn Rand to feel satisfied about something.

A day becomes a night and back again.

29 is in two weeks.

Run.