This Night In The Blood

On this night I fall to the floor. Just like I fell the last time it was this night and just like I will for always. I can never tell when this night will come. Just that it will. Because it always has. It has always since you and like I fell for you on that very first night, so I will continue to forever fall.

The bottle of wine beside me, the mirror in front so I can stare at the reflection I no longer recognize, the blade in my hand. These remain constant, as does the absence of you. The surroundings may change, but no matter where I run I cannot escape this night. I may have lost you but your memory will never let me go.

The first real scar, that was for you. The others were practice. But you had already been found, been taken, and the connection with her ran deeper and stronger than anything we would ever know. A love thick enough that it was near tangible, visible enough that everyone knew you were for her and she for you. Yet you came to me anyway. And I was dragged in, somewhere in between and caught in that which bound you to her, tangled and desperate to cut myself free.

Only really I didn’t want to be free; I only wanted to be free form her and alone with you. Bind you with something stronger, some dark love meant only for us. When my blood ran though, you ran with it. Slowly at first, but with each time, a the blade sat easier between my fingers and sliced deeper into my flesh and the blood began to pour, so you flowed away. You had been with her in the blood but I ended up alone.

That’s what I think of on this night. The crimson wine stains the creases of my lips, and as the glaze is painted over my eyes I loose sight of the progress I have made since you. And I slip and I fall and it all runs again.

I wonder if you look at the angry red reminders that cling still to your body as I do to the memory and if you think of me. But then I remember that they were never for me. I was all for you, but you, you were for her and for others and for the voices that haunted you long before I ever appeared.

Whispers that find their way to my ear tell me you’ve escaped the blood.

I have not.

In it I cling to you, and to all that you meant. To what I dreamt we would be. I thought you would kiss my wounded heart and in our brokenness together we would become whole. But instead I was left here all alone in this night, with nothing but my pain and the blood and another scar that is crying out for you.

Tomorrows A New Day

The saying, that tomorrow’s a new day. It’s not always a positive one. In the moment you can tell yourself, well its only tonight. Tomorrow I can start afresh. This night of drinking and all that it entails, tomorrow it won’t matter. Not even tomorrow, there’s always some marker you set, some time in the future, that’s when you can deal with everything. Hit rock bottom and start again, they’ll always be another chance. But you start running out of chances. Or maybe not chances, but you end up ruining everything that you value. You waste opportunities that before mattered so much. You loose friendships and relationships and real chances for happiness. But in the moment what does it matter? You feel it in you body, running down your throat coursing through your veins, filling your body with a warmth that you simply don’t know how to find otherwise. The taste, caressing your mouth, loving you in ways that no-one else has ever been able to. Or perhaps they have, but because you’re so broken and have such impossible needs, that when it came you just didn’t feel was enough. Maybe nothing would ever be enough, nothing from an external source. But that’s the thing with alcohol. It will never leave you. It’s always there. You know you can always find it, and it will always open its arms to you in love and affection and reassurance and comfort and anything else that you want it to be. And it hates you, deep down inside it hates you and strives to destroy you and wants you completely in its clutches. But that’s alright. Because the love in your mind overcomes that, it drowns out that voice in the back of your head saying don’t do this. And anyways, what do you care? Because you love the hate, you love how it kills you. Because that’s all that you know and all that you deserve. And so you go back. It shields you from what’s outside. Drink it till you don’t care or feel anymore. Facing up to life and more specifically the things about life that make you drink, well that’s a thousand times harder than just drinking it away. Honestly, life is horrible. At least your life. And those feelings of worthlessness, failure, rejection they drift away with each sip or at least while you may still feel them, you just couldn’t care anymore. You don’t care. Well, I don’t care. I may tomorrow, but then I’ve always been a creature who lives life dictated by my feelings and right now I’m not going to care. Or at least not care in the way I would if I didn’t have the glass in my hand.