People

It's never dark enough. I can always see some small piece of flesh. Some beacon of memory refusing to go dim. As if a candle were ever so bright that it could lead me through those dungeons or find what in those corners is lost.

It's never late enough. Especially since I decided I had to be more of a nighttime alcoholic. 8pm became 9. 9 became 9:15. And when the movies stopped playing I wondered how I'd wait. Keep on waiting as though I wasn't really waiting, thought I've always been.

It's only a color. Just one crayon in a box of hundreds. But it's the name that you remember. And how it look on that empty page when it dared to fill those outlines in.

Just lies that make feeble hearts laugh out loud because well, there's nothing else left to laugh at. Just myself and the ways I find to break again.

It's like we wore those shirts without regard for what was written on them. And when we took them off it didn't matter. That skin could absolve what words couldn't.

You wear your life like filtere fitted to lenses dark. Feel the shutter pressing hard against your finger as you attempt to take a picture of what is gone.

All my cartoon tattooes and my faulkner references means nothing now. They're just ink caught under skin that doesn't remember them and metaphors to stark for real life to accept.

What I wanted to be isn't this, but it's not so different. A little less dependent on the actions of others. It's not the alcohol that is my weakness. It's people.

It's not broken I fear becoming. I've been that so often. It's feeble.