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(Hell in a) Bottle


One-point-four. There’s an average of 1.4 syllables per word in the sentence, and five words in that sentence. An average of 4.75 letters per word.
It is the compensatory calculations over layers upon layers of conversation. Each miniscule detail taking its toll on the very nerves you claim to formulate your core. Syntax: you find yourself stirring at every hour, amidst each individual thought, and the microcosm of said thought. You are thinking of the words, the synonyms, and you appear with no less than three substitutions for a word- you find yourself walking in circles. Your language is one which no one else seems to speak because you are a freak. Misunderstood. Yet, you find a voice somewhere to keep speaking because you long for someone who will simply understand.
It is the disarray of one simple squiggly line. Then two. A maze, but then a page that has turned black. It is the last thing you actually remember before blacking out. The bottle clutched in one hand, and you never even realized the messages in the other as you are simultaneously damning every bridge- every connection to the outside world you had.

But this is not you. When was the last time anyone actually saw you? Five… ten… days? Weeks? Months?... Years?



Chaos.

A deafening freight train of thought as everything comes crashing in. It is another sip. Another relationship.

Blind.



The bottle. The destruction. An unforseen force in creating a monster that places me in harms way of becoming an emotional punching bag. Again. And again. But still- again. The bottle is no friend of mine- yet I have thrown a stone or two in my own proverbial glass house of mangled up deceit and idiosyncratic behaviors. The kind of behaviors where I hurt others to protect myself, but I also allow myself to withstand abusive language on repeat; as if I were falling into some sort of distorted nightmare. Except I have yet to put these ones to their end.



I am not an emotional punching bag.



I am not the driving force in your downfall and the rightful direction of your anger. Anyone’s anger.



I make mistakes- but I am not a mistake. I may react in the wrong ways, and I may at times be wrong, but I am entitled to my emotions, and always entitled to stand to them.




I will no longer be shaken by the words of those whose breath is the monster whose claimed too many lives, or close thereof to those I love. I will no longer reflect, and deflect your words because they are not my battle scars to carry. You do not get to defend yourself to me because you are no longer yourself.

You do not get to defend yourself to me because you are no longer yourself. 




I hope you come back- but so many of you wandered so long ago, and have yet to realize.



It is fog.


An unrelenting spin of archaic pounding.

Regret. Betrayal. An empty bottle, and twisted mind.  



I hope you come back soon. 

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