XCIII

I don’t drink* any-more;
My choice of poison was never strong enough to beat the antidote.
Now the medicine cabinet’s broken
(Or is it that I’ve moved?)
Either way, there’s no cure for where I’m at.

“We each create hell for ourselves, we have no one to blame but ourselves for our demons”
The dying embers of coherent thought provide me with some respite.
Or maybe it’s just … spitefulness; that would lead me to drag my morose body to the dumps.
Repairs? Reparations? What does this represent?

I’d tell you – but I’ve already thought too much; the thinking’s gone and fucked my brain over.
So I’m here. Alert, but comatose
(Think I don’t use enough commas?)
… Only Heaven Knows.

*I don’t drink that much

[You know the drill. The title's 93. Look it up under numerology]