Holidaze, words

first holiday season alone in 17 years, if it is anything like my birthday this is going to be fucking epic levels of sad

since I moved to Texas I have been in a relationship, so even though I have no family here I always had their family

now, hmmpf, nothing

kids are with their mother

I never realized just how alone I have become, trapped in this cycle of depression and solitary confinement

this is not a plea, or pity party, just the hard truth

not like I really give a shit about the holidays, I don’t. but fuck. 16 years in a row I had something, and 25 in a row in Illinois I had family and friends

now, nothing

it made for a very hard birthday as well, especially when the kids asked what I did and what I got, well wishes on Facebook and texts and calls, but to them it was just pathetic

besides them I have nothing I am thankful for

mostly because without them I have absolutely nothing

a series of exes and almosts, the lies and tender moments that amounted to looking at a Chinese takeout menu and deciding fried rice or vegetables and tofu in spicy garlic sauce, maybe a half and half of each, and a whole lot of failures and disappointments

I tried though, maybe a trip to the liquor store and give up in this newly rediscovered sobriety of the past 22 days, fell into drink and pulled back out but for the life of me I cannot figure out why. either one.

it becomes more and more obvious that I am the problem, if I didn’t exist nothing would change, no one would blink, everyone would keep going like it is all normal

and it would be

I write words that no one cares about, shoot desperation into an unfeeling world, hopes and dreams that amount to less than the kilobytes they consume

Every time I think this is the bottom a new door opens beneath my feet and I plummet further from the light until it becomes another empty word for the things I do not deserve

another series in a long run of catastrophes 

is this how the zealot pilgrims felt as they were banished from their homes and sent across the ocean to suffer and nearly die in a new land with nothing but the buckles on their shoes and belts?

probably

but at least they had each other, and an angry God, and the indigenous people they would soon swindle and stab in the back

not egg rolls and bitter tears, a maze of insecurities and an endless well of self loathing

smoke and mirrors, turbulent and false

no expectations or possibilities, just the memory of better times and vague recollections of hope and love

corpses of what was, what never will be again

fantasies of things I never had but thought was there

the taste of remorse 

burning like whiskey, hints of sorrow and an aftertaste of hibernation

masturbatory glimpses of another world where I was enough, where I was something, where my words were hung on

thankful for the past, horrified by the future, stagnant in the now

I noticed that most of my metaphors and word play deals with drowning, lost at sea, images of the cold black depths of the ocean and the predatory things just below the sight line, hints upon the waves

should be of dessication and the merciless desert, of too hot days and freezing nights, thirsty and wandering from mirage to mirage, homage to homage of things better left to dry out and blow away in the fiercesome winds, the constant baking of the sun, of sin, of syntax errors and tremulous insights into the inner workings of a shade

a vampire, staked and bound by silver in a holy antiquated box, buried and unmarked in the memories of those that survived

broken homes and shattered scenes

of dad, hell of my mother, of a sister and step siblings, of loss and sands tumbling through the single file hour glass, ticking down and covering me until all that remains is a sign that warns to leave the dead buried

drunken messes and turkey on the grill in a foot of snow, making the gravy because it was my singular purpose

missing drugs, hugs, hope and familial comforts, the tiny house and sounds of laughter

over stayed and under played, forlorn and forgotten, like the chunks of bone and ashes that is the past

reticent reminders of what was and never will, places and spaces and drunken whimsy, the short side of the wishbone, the silent phone, the sad sounds of a lone saxophone whispering love and life, the mocking tones and hollow bones and instant potatoes and never more

if it could be done again it would be exactly the same though, 11:11 flashing on every clock in view

happy holidaze from my empty room to you

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