Through the thick fog of falling snow I see Christmas lights blinking on and off accented with humming neon. Skid-row wino dive-bar hotspot beckoning me like a lighthouse steering a mariner away from the jagged rocks into a calm harbor, so does the drink take me away from here, from hustling bustling Christmas caroling and consumerism, into a dark quiet place where I can be alone with my pain. It’s frightfully cold and I feel the frigid metal of a nine millimeter tucked squarely into my waistband burn and sear my flesh, but I carry it anyways “just in case.” I’m more paranoid these days, constantly looking behind me and inspecting dark corners searching for the bogeyman. Or maybe it’s the crystal and lack of sleep playing shrewd tricks with my brain.
It’s been four years now, four Christmas’s long ago, you and I decided to end it - as the quiet snow and wind and heroin whispered my name beckoning me outside into their nether-realm and away from your warm bed. Four Christmas’s ago I walked away like a scared shitless asshole and never looked back because I was proud and inhumanly selfish. So there’s nothing left now but a rail-thin mass of putrid flesh with rotten teeth and purple arms, where once there was... something. What remains now is an empty shit-vessel hopeless nothing: fucking, dying, and frying.
And you may not see it but I wear a preposterous chain, twisting and winding, which I continue to build link by link and yard by yard every step I take and every second I breathe.
Hell is cold and I pull up a stool next to Judas Iscariot and order a shot of whiskey… and “keep them coming” cause it’s Christmas and an excuse to get fucked up cause it’s but once a year and I’m here to spread some Christmas good cheer.
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