What Was Thought, Yet Never Said
Tell your mother she was right when she called you a whore. A lazy, careless, stupid whore. You thought you could get away with it, didn’t you? All that fraternizing and frivolous frolicking, drowning your sorrows at the bottom of that bottle. Putting off for longer what you could’ve done tomorrow, or next week.
By the way, I checked: That unchecked demon that came in behind you left the goddamned door ajar. Sick with the pneumonia you gave her when you fed her a steady diet of charm and oblivion. Probably going to blow the fucking place up if it’s not worth saving, you unaccountable bastard.
Your soul’s not worth saving. Stop trying. I told you, your futile attempts to outrun, to out-earn, to outwit your past. Did you not realize your baggage has been in your backpack the entire time? That it’s been guiding your every move? You’re a coward masquerading as a saint. Moral clarity? Since when have you been so principled that you couldn’t have had your mind changed by the right reward attained the wrong way?
And yet here you stand. Disheveled. Sloppier than a two-dollar bum who picks you up on Sycamore Avenue — remember her? — asking if you’d like a ride back to the causeway in exchange for a hand job and some chocolate. Some fuckery. You just had to, didn’t you? Altruism as self-sabotage.
You’re a spineless sycophant thirsty for the blood of purpose, filling up on chance encounters with characters too bleak to forget yet too boring to remember. Congratulations on finishing the pack and the gram, seven hours closer to death with nothing to show and nothing to live for.
Remember, dear, when she read from the bible and told you she was “on fire?” Remember the way you gasped for air when she touched you by the hand to grab you by the throat? No? That horseshit you spewed for days and weeks and months and all the days and weeks and months run together, darling. It’s all come to bear as the cross you bear — alone with everybody. The company of loneliness. The death of that which left your dreams dashed at the altar of what you may have been, had you been a bit more discrete or discerning.