The Agent stood on the corner,
Smelling faintly of bourbon and stale cigarettes,
Loss and despair.

He was a rising star when he had started,
A keen eye for talent and shrewd in business.
But those times had long past,
For all he had now was the bittersweet yearn of nostalgia and just enough in royalties for a dumpy apartment.

A light rain started,
It's cold droplets stinging lightly on the Agent's reddened nose,
Irking him,
Beyond not just having a drink.

The Agent spots his shelter,
A bar just down the street.

As he walks in,
He shakes loose the rain that hadn't clung yet,
And shuffles over to the bar with hands shoved deep in pockets,
He goes and orders a drink.

It is then that he looks over to see a band getting ready in the corner,
It is then that the Frontman belted out the count in.

And the agent dropped his drink.

How awfully sad it is when our body is our home,
And someone you love,
Tries to burn it to the ground.

How awfully sad it is when the eyes are our windows,
And someone you know,
Choses to shut out​ the light.

How terribly sad it is when our hearts are made to love and to yearn, as the fireplace,
And you see that someone,
Has put out their flames and snuffed out what was left.

They are finished and done,
Nothing is the same, no one, nowhere, none.

Fat, fat, fat.
All I see is fat.
I am the "chunkiest", the "chubbiest", the "roundest" and the "ugly pig".
I might as well be a rat, the biggest of the big.

Fat, fat, fat,
All I see is fat.
I am "just right", "average", "normal" or "perfect size."
They lie every single time, and hell, just 'like that'.

Fat, fat, fat,
All I see is fat.
I am "too skinny!", "I wish I looked like you", "wow! Size zero jeans?!" and "underweight".
Yet, I refuse to touch this cold, stocked plate.

Fat, fat, fat,
All I see is fat.
I am "awful", "dying", Miss "eat something" and "throne of bones".
Yet, this body will never be my souls rightful home.

Fat, fat, fat.
All I ever will be is fat.
Even in a long gown and stuck to the end of an I.V pole,
With doctors and psychatrists and loved ones crying and begging me to just "recover, please come home!"

I am still fat.


The hospital bed is empty,
My bed is left untouched,
There is a silence as the wearers in black all sob and stare silently at the body in the ground.
Devasted and hushed...

I see them, but can no longer speak.
No longer able to feel, no longer live,
Forced to watch time pass and hearts mourn...
Their days now heartbroken and bleak.

My  best friend doesn't speak, she now sits alone,
My mother sobs every night, family reminded
so often of my presence,
The one who secrelty loved me has loved no more,
Even my pets still wait outside my door.

Those who knew me, only can remember me in the things left behind,
Even the sun itself rarely shines.


Dead, lost, gone.
I am no longer fat,
But I also no longer- belong.

accept things. easy? no, i wrote of this yesterday.



looks better in visual than stuck in mind. html.



go with the flow.                       we had thought

it was an eel fighting yet it     was some string

in the current.



he said he had used the wrong nails,

had hoped for galvanised.



it is alright, we are not in denial.



there is a spectrum.



sbm.

Enter the Dragon

I didn't start with my addiction until I was 13. It was at that point that I found alcohol. "Demon ***". And a terrible scourge it was for a majority of my life.

I want to preface this next segment by saying that I love my father dearly. He is now sober and has been many decades. But at the time my story is being told, he was an alcoholic. Of the first water. A "responsible" drunk. He held down a job. A job he hated. And so he ran away from life when he could. And both my parents liked to throw parties. There were always mixed drinks. Martinis. *Lots of them. After a few my father could no longer maintain. He couldn't mix the drinks. So guess who was recruited as bartender? You got it. And I began to imbibe in my own creations as I had to "test" the taste. They were good, alright. And my customers got plowed! I would have also, but God had His hand on me, even then. I somehow knew better. I got tipsey. But my REAL alcoholic behavior would come later. At that point I began raiding my father's liquor cabinet. The drugs came later, too...

... enter a little girl named CRICKET.**


SøułSurvivør
6/3/2017