It all makes perfect sense to me but from the outside? I'm just another freak show nobody junkie. But really, I'm a dreamseller fortune teller heretic and slave. I'll sell you any dream you want for me, be it sobriety or whatever. It won't come to bear fruit but I will still sell it. Salve won't soothe these infected wounds. It's pain that gnaws and sometimes spikes but always there. Always. Haunting masses of memory that come down hard and the weight it never lifts. It never lifts back off of me.
What is wrong with me? Am I a junkie by design or by decision? Must be design this must be meant to be, it's always meant to be, it's all meant to be. Has to be or else there's no sense or order to things. My sensical order in the scheme is I am at the bottom of the ladder. No bottom junkie with a big fucking monkey stealing scraps from my table.
What're the odds of escape? 1%? I reject your numbers and choose instead to create my own. My own 15 years. My own 5,000 days. My own 25 months and 3 days sober now long past. My own odds of survival through autumn.
Autumn I feel in the air tonight, another ending rolling in. I can taste it in the cool breeze and chilly rain. My thoughts spiral on the last thermals of July while my body waits below, hoping there is salvation. Can you salvage a life that's not much beyond scrap? I don't know if I can. I won't die because of that though, I won't just let go. I'll fight and rage and battle on till the bitter end, drinking alone and singing songs better sung round a campfire with friends. It won't be long until cold winter rain forms crusts on the drains, steam rising from the sewers where I sleep.
It won't be long until the opiates are gone and all you have is yourself. And what will stare back from the mirror when you look? What will I see looking back? A monster?
Or do I have wings?