Funerals

Love at best is a tactic. A strategic counterstrike against loneliness and pain. At worst, an ultimatum. Emotional blackmail. The same is true for alcohol. But who does it to whom I'm still unsure.

I know it begins with the potential alcoholic having the upper hand. It's a choice afterall. Easy one or hard; a choice still the same.

Before it ever uses you, you are the one using it. Swallowing that demagogue for all the peace it can bestow. Knowing full well, it won't last. That soon it'll have claimed the power. Only you just don't care about a month or a year down the raod. All you care about. All you ever have is this very moment. NOW.

Right now. This very moment. That's where I always am. Where I always must live. And I want it to be better, but if I can't make it better then I must at least make it tolerable. And this is how I can.

With this stealth IV of fermented numbness. As drip by drip it filters into and I lose the war, but then I always wanted to.

I was dead long before I found this particular coffin.