I'm on hiatus from God's own golden concoction. In the garden, my tools lay impotent, rusty and worn from chipping away at the weeds, which, overgrowing their picket boundaries, have sullenly, yet surely, begun creeping their way out onto the sidewalk; never-minding the futility. The rabbits, nibbling to bloody stumps, their paws, peer expectantly from their warrens as the sun slices my eyes and pierces my brain, simulating the hangovers and dredging up the cracked tooth proclamations of health to the heathens populating moldy tables in taverns; hovering over dollar store candles on all of those untold days and nights of decidedly delicious debauchery. I am done digging the jaundice creep. I am done with feeling the vagus burn. I all too done with being caught awkward with the gravy stains on my Sunday best. Finding my way back to the spastic womb, the birthright quickening, the bully boom of her powder keg streets, casting sideways war torn glances at all of the people basking in the false morning calm as I quest for full fair and gainful employment and a breath of fresh air.
Sometimes, I miss my memories, most times not, but I am left with some scars, and the slippery unease of wondering exactly how the hell I arrived here in one piece, a dollar debt on my life, and so many souls in tow.
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