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today means amen; lance [blitz]
Feb 2, 2017 13:43:21 GMT -5
Post by heather - d2 [mylee] on Feb 2, 2017 13:43:21 GMT -5
s h e l b y ♔ l e v i a n e
The best thing about being intoxicated is that there is no space in your mind for second thoughts and lasting regret.
With my sister’s death, I had been nothing more than every thing I did not do, but with liquor on my tongue and fire in my lungs I was every brash thought; every “what if” actually acted upon. There was no time to consider alternative possibilities when already living through the consequences of actions not pondered for even a second.
No longer a girl of caution but a woman of risk, there was reward in offering my body as a sacrifice to whatever god people believed in these days.
However, I will cut my own heart out of my chest before I ever pray again.
The year following the sixty-eighth games had been one of bargaining. One of tender apologies, gentle questions, and falling to bruised knees yet another time to beg to a man who was not giving me his ear.
I had asked for forgiveness in the moments in between, but repentance and remorse were not regular visitors to this temple of mine.
If I was not to find salvation, was sin not a welcomed guest in its wake?
Temptation is a sweet taste. Smooth on the tongue and gentle on the throat going down. Negativity is then nothing but an aftertaste, and if you keep up the consumption, it can never become part of conscious thought.
Alcohol withering away like the last bits of sunlight left this evening, I take a glass from the table and pour straight whiskey, a bottle now almost empty but soon to be overflowing by the time I reached for it the following morning.
It does not give way to sleep for these weary bones.
Instead, I find myself wandering halls, stepping lightly in fear of sobriety as though it is half the beast I imagine it to be. Amidst this caution, I bump into an unknown figure that screams his name as my next glass of whiskey, and I keep my hand upon his shoulder as I half-whisper, half-speak into his ear, “You look like a tall drink of something I would not mind getting my hands on.”
With my sister’s death, I had been nothing more than every thing I did not do, but with liquor on my tongue and fire in my lungs I was every brash thought; every “what if” actually acted upon. There was no time to consider alternative possibilities when already living through the consequences of actions not pondered for even a second.
No longer a girl of caution but a woman of risk, there was reward in offering my body as a sacrifice to whatever god people believed in these days.
However, I will cut my own heart out of my chest before I ever pray again.
The year following the sixty-eighth games had been one of bargaining. One of tender apologies, gentle questions, and falling to bruised knees yet another time to beg to a man who was not giving me his ear.
I had asked for forgiveness in the moments in between, but repentance and remorse were not regular visitors to this temple of mine.
If I was not to find salvation, was sin not a welcomed guest in its wake?
Temptation is a sweet taste. Smooth on the tongue and gentle on the throat going down. Negativity is then nothing but an aftertaste, and if you keep up the consumption, it can never become part of conscious thought.
Alcohol withering away like the last bits of sunlight left this evening, I take a glass from the table and pour straight whiskey, a bottle now almost empty but soon to be overflowing by the time I reached for it the following morning.
It does not give way to sleep for these weary bones.
Instead, I find myself wandering halls, stepping lightly in fear of sobriety as though it is half the beast I imagine it to be. Amidst this caution, I bump into an unknown figure that screams his name as my next glass of whiskey, and I keep my hand upon his shoulder as I half-whisper, half-speak into his ear, “You look like a tall drink of something I would not mind getting my hands on.”
