The Envelope Is Useless Now

The fortune teller in his stare predicting the hour of my submission. Drawing the timeline in the tying of shoelaces and the combing of hair. Afterwards. A serene storm of questions I was always afraid to ask.

The want built its casinos. The sex installed its slot machines. Long corridors of losing. For the pleasure of it. Every conversation a hand of blackjack. Do I hit or do I stick? I've never been a fan of gambling. But when I think about it gambling is a mirror for all addictions. Constantly giving away what you have in the dire hope that it'll come back to you as what you want. The greater the loss, the more you're willing to bet on the next hand.

And when it's all gone. When you've nothing left to wager. Well, there's always something left to risk. If you're desperate enough to still think you can win. And that is the nature of addiction. Of depression. Each loss fortifies you with a new urgency to get to the next. Because it could be the one razor that's sharp enough.

It could be the room where you finally cut so deep. That it doesn't matter how you got there. Or what you wore. They'll only remember you as you looked then.

Pulling pieces of your skin from the sheets. Like confetti. Like needles. Like cocaine. Seeping into every corner of my memory. Until the only dreams I have are of dying.