The Real Trick

Alright, I've just about whittled everything down to this. This thing right here.

THIS.

 

I call poetry an addiction. I call it that because it's a thing that I've done for so long, a thing that gives me so little joy and yet I continue doing it, a thing that I've tried to stop doing before but could never quite manage the big sleep.

 

I turned 33 two days ago.

I quit writing almost two months ago. 

I axed my social media shit yesterday.

 

I think...

 

I think I'm cured, doc.

 

All that's left is this. This thing right here.

THIS.

 

I've spent so much time afraid of leaving nothing behind

that, in exposed panics, I've left everyfuckingthing behind.

A rotten heap of myself. Without rhyme or reason. 

I think I'm done being afraid of how unremarkable I am. 

 

And now. The real trick, I think,

will be to destroy this. This thing right here.

THIS.

 

When? 

I don't know. 

 

I've got two weeks of midnight shifts coming up.

I'd venture it'll happen then. 

 

Thanks for playing along. You. Whoever you are.