limowreck

This room is empty but cluttered with
things I've accumulated over the past few days.
Pizza boxes and paper plates
with grease spots and half eaten crusts
and empty beer bottles
lay scattershot around my den, almost
mocking me at the reminder that
I'm alone.

A cockroach shoots across the floor in my shitty flat,
probably to join his other cockroach buddies
that have resided in this apartment
long before me. Perhaps contemplating overthrowing
my long term stay here by
driving me out with their scampering bodies
(I get the creepy-crawlies just thinking about it),
shooting off into a corner and watching me stare back.

I need another beer so I make haste to the fridge
to find a cold one (cold being a relative term since the fridge
doesn't
fucking
work). The naked bulb in the kitchenette, which is small like this place, small
as my malnourished body,
is the cherry on top the sundae that is
the reminder of
how the mighty fall. One minute on top of the world,
the next minute you fall right down,
face first, maybe breaking your nose as you slide across the
cheap, dirt caked linoleum.

I look around for a crowd to cheer me on.
There isn't any. There's the roaches, but they're secretly wishing me to be on their level.
I'm actually lower, since they've always been on that level,
have grown accustom to it. I haven't.
I haven't even fucking accepted it. I can't accept it; I have to walk into the bathroom
right now, shout at the permanently fogged mirror, bore into the soap scum and nicotine stains,
look at my blighted face, and shout "This isn't you!"

Shit. Even my reflection despises me. I could argue with myself, pros and cons, about who I am until
I'm blue in the face, and it won't change where I'm at, how far I've fallen.
I'm a drunk. I'm a waste of my own time.

This is me. Ha.


(Wow, that was really, really fun to write. Don't worry kids, strictly artistic reaching here. I'm perfectly fine. )