Abyss

You are here, now. At the bottom of the barrel, easier to shoot than the cold, slimy fish crowding around you. In fact, given the chance you may do the job yourself, save the world the effort. You wonder if not everyone spends their days treading water simply to keep breathing; it seems a novel thought, unfathomable. If you rest for a minute, how quickly you'd slip away into the depths, how easy. How relieving. On the screen, a man self-destructs against a romanticized Venice Beach backdrop; I google rental listings and am glad to see I couldn't afford any of them, because otherwise what could keep me from going? The itch in my vein is back, the clawing at my back, the constant threat of sick at the top of my throat. My brown skin dries in the winter freeze, the bottle beckons earlier each morning: I do not dress. Everyone around you tumbles, no one can carry the other. She writes to say the anxiety is an old friend, creeping in under her skin, always reliable. For two people who have never relied on anything, it seems we take what we can get. Every moment of peace is just a moment waiting for status quo to return. A collection of pills beckons at the back of my closet.

It's a good thing you're too tired to make your messes bigger than they are.