Undoing the Stitches

You say what you're thinking in bits of dodgeball. Hit or be hit. Lapses of reason hardly momentary. The turbulent quack of empty rooms as they tumble in on the eyes watching them. Toddlers in soft shoes still fumbling with the prospect of freedom. Utterly unaware of how virulently dependence will seek its revenge.

Little fairy tales tick off the dosages we've used. Huffing on the dick of the cure. Disease is. Sickness is. Pretending we could ever be those people we were. Addiction is. Hopelessness is the whore of happiness. The heroin in each touch as our humility soils the bed.

I'm not ready to be vulnerable. Nor have I ever been. Choices are seldom what we make of them.

But none of that is the problem.

It's the gap. The hot, sour asphalt from now to whenever. This silent alarm never warns anyone.. There's just a lot of screaming no one can hear.

Sex like dodgeball. And penises like stitches falling out.