Black Goes the Night, Dark Goes the Heart (II)

DSC_4216a © 2016 City of Broken Dreams

That was then.

This is now:

I come crawl home—it’s 3 a.m.

When I enter through the front door, the only thing I can smell is the stench of my own filth: bourbon fumes rising from my pores, evaporating off my skin; cigarette and cigar smoke suffused into my clothing; the faint scent of some random whore’s pussy clinging to the flesh of my thigh.

Honey, I’m home!

But there are no more ghosts to greet me. Not anymore. Not in these post-exorcism days, anyway. I’m not sure how long it’s been, but enough time has passed that even my ghosts have abandoned me; even the haunters have grown tired of haunting.


I scatter the contents of my pockets across the dark espresso finish of the dining room table: out spills my wallet, some loose change, my phone, a lighter, a panoply of loose pills (dig all them pretty colors, man)—some legally obtained, most not. O Lord, unburden me from the weight of this unholy night!    


Shimmy, shuck, and jive myself free of my anxiety-imbued, sweat-drenched clothes. Shake free from the fabric of my sins like the serpent sheds its reptilian skin. Notice the dried blooms of crimson that have mysteriously flowered on the cuffs of my shirt sleeves. Baby, it can only be blood—but if not my own, then whose? Out, damned spot! Out, I say screeeeeam!  


And down down down I go. Down for the count. Down into the ring of fire—where the flames do indeed grow higher. Where it really does burn burn burn—just like I used to burn for you.

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Black Goes the Night, Dark Goes the Heart (I)

DSC_4522 © 2016 City of Broken Dreams

I was never given the moment to experience what it would feel like to fall asleep with her lying next to me. It was never in the cards—it was just never meant to be, I guess. Or maybe it was, and the moment was stolen from me. By whom or what, I’m not really sure. There were the usual suspects, of course: the “other man;” her lack of need or desire to; the dark storm cloud of lovelessness that looms on every horizon; my filthy addictions, my wicked impulses, my devil inside—basically, my sad, lonely, fucked up life. And of course, there was always the night.

The black night: her point of exit, her exit stage night. But not before the same prerequisite sequence of steps, first: She would tell me goodbye. She would kiss me goodnight. She would turn to leave. She would walk away. Until finally, she would:

Step into the night, baby.

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