© 2016 City of Broken Dreams
That was then.
This is now:
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
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.