This is a fragmented collection of my uncensored confessions. I've been trying to figure out how fast I need to spin for the world to stop.
Standing knee-deep in cold water, swiftly moving
Somehow I knew I lost something
Waiting waist-deep I saw a book there, in the river
Waiting for me to find it there
I tried to read it, neck deep, treading water
The tide pulled me out to sea
Then with water in my eyes
The words began to rise from their place
They were beautiful and dread
I reached for them and fed on each phrase
They were honey on my lips
Then a bitter twist in my side
I knew they’d lay me in my grave
“Is there no one who could save me? ” I cried
Getting clean (verb):
To eschew the past that made you. To renounce everything you know, friends and habits and comforts and routines. To wave goodbye to the haunted castles you are so familiar with, and the ruins of beautiful cities you destroyed to build them. To move on and grow up and become someone new.
How many of us can do that? Can I?
Getting clean is hard. It’s fucking scary. Relapse is scarier. You get a little time, a little money, you get lonely, you get nostalgic. You get complacent. A week later, you’re waking up terrified because, oh god, its this nightmare all over again.
I can try. I’ve done it before.
Right now, I’m not sure what I’m more afraid of; succeeding and starting anew; or failing, getting a little bit better just to tell this same tired story over and over again.