D ead and Rotting

Checkered 80's
plaid pillow case,
the sole remnant of
my parent's marriage.
The memory.
I see tea cups on
the sill, left by the bed
just like always
and I can't help but
to see a similar symbol,
an artifact to forget
and lock away in the
archaeological record,

just like she always
said she was afraid of
I don't want to be
like your parents
or my parents
I'm so scared of being
like them,
but here we are.
I have the feeling
she will leave me
tomorrow and I have
this metallic taste in my
mouth and I have
Nothing.

Nothing that is conducive
to getting drunk,
nothing that is worth holding
onto,
nothing that resembles
love,
nothing that brings back
memory,
nothing that gives me
hope.
Nothing.

That nothing hangs by a thread-bore tether
to the briefest of
temper flare ups.
But I suppose my
anger can wear anyone out
if they stick around long
enough to find out.
But tonight I am drinking
black out drunk
slurring my words and pissing
my bed drunk with the dreams
of incoherent barbarians
dancing  in my brains,
head full of cigarettes and
mescaline and whiskey so much whiskey
si mch whskyts
dnt yu knw I love you
goddmit whiuy can't you
just let itgow eve madeti
sofr wiht somchb etwn us.

Just wait until morning
and you realize that
no matter how fucked up
I make your life,
that you don't feel
half alive without
me.
Or do you.