I buy alcohol to feel something,
and pills to feel nothing.
I drink whiskey straight from the bottle,
and as I shatter the bottle against the wall,
the broken pieces after the fall feel like my body.
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At night instead of prayers,
I worship the pills on my bedside table that bring me rest.
Used matchsticks are scattered all over,
next to the half smoked joints and cigarette butts.
3 AM, I lay awake in bed, curled up into a ball
as random thoughts & sadness overwhelm me.
Sometimes I think of the ‘could haves’
and sometimes I think of the ‘whys’.
I reach for the phone and contemplate texting her.
But then I feel that’d be a weak ass move.
She made it clear we were over,
that she didn’t want anything to do with me, EVER.
As if that’s not enough,
I am expected to deal with it like a man.
Please tell me how men are supposed to hurt.
Let me know how men grief,
and deal with losses,
And as my alarm goes off,
and daylight peers through the curtain,
I sigh satisfied like you’d do after finishing a good novel
that the night is over,
and I don’t have to be alone with my thoughts anymore.
But then again,
it’s another day to face the world
with a face showing no emotion whatsoever,
Like every other man ‘should’.
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