(collapse the fist)

My brain is a young girl, bloodied legs and ashamed of what the body can make of a man when it's late and drinking's a thing from hours ago - full of smoke and the lucid passing of television screams.

I've assessed, in my life, that there is precious little left to shame me. there are a wealth of regrettable things. embarassing moments. archives better left buried under times when we were smiling and my tongue was whet with kisses and conversation.

But i make mistakes. sizable ones at that. nothing, now, that would qualify as markers on a hell-bound path. still my course of actions doesn't always lead me in the right direction.

Sometimes i wake up to find my flesh weak, my will itching with the need to forget that i can fail (what it takes, sometimes, to face another day as a sycohpant dreaming of subversion coming up from the dregs of rage). sometimes i wish i could just sleep it off. sleep for days in the shade of an empty room with only books to comfort me.

Thank god, though, that's not my luxury.

Escape, however necessary a virtue, is a coward's path at best. and i'd rather feel like shit than be afraid of anything again.