Woke up sweating under the weight of something
that was half real, half a joke my brain played
on itself. A woman whispered in my ear, but
her lips were just echoes of some lost desire.
The city was burning, but I felt no heat, just
a dull ache where dreams go to die slow.
My hands, heavy with the residue of a life
that didn’t quite happen, or maybe it did,
but the whiskey blurred the edges like a knife
that’s seen too much use, too much blood.
The sun crawled in through the blinds, too
weak to chase away the ghosts from the night.
I wondered if she was real, or just another
lie I told myself to make the mornings bearable.
Somewhere in the haze, I lost the line between
what was mine and what was just borrowed.
Another day, another shot of whatever gets
me through the day without too many questions.
I don’t need answers, just a break from the
truth that waits like a dog at my door, hungry
for what’s left of me, if there’s anything left at all.