the room is black
the sky is black
the night is black
the world is black
the future is black
the entirety of everything
is dark and dreary and
black

savior rests in a bottle,
a small red circular shape,
and it comes in hundreds
but numbers are not enough

I need a healer,
one that breaths
and thinks and
lives

I need to crucify my pride
and reach out to Roman
help

the black looms
and looks with
a smirk

how do I decide to
**** a part of me?

this decision, between
suicide and suicide,
rests one phone call
and terrible conversation
away

there is a bed
the bed is black
the bed is death
the bed is mine

the future is the kiss of judas
but the lips of his are my own

the solution does not rest
in a bottle or an exercise,
it exists in a man or women
who has no care for me
except that I am paying
him/her

my salvation is in swallowing
not any pill or medication,
but in nailing my arrogance
to a cross, swallowing it whole
as it may be, and walking past
their doors into a confessionary
between only me and they

I am caught in the moment
that will end part or all of
me