(penny change)

My brain is a life left scattering for a vice marked by soft, magnetic lips and the perils of green eyes.

And i fight myself knowing that, at least, in the end i might win. i stand up and swing. i take one in the chin. i fall down and come up bleeding long and hard along my face from a headwound i can't give a shit about just yet. i clock. i kick. i break a rib and some fucking knees. i wrap my hands around his neck and i just fucking squeeze until there's nothing left to give a damn about anymore.

I raise a drink to what i've done. i light another cigarette and sit back thinking this is the point where i should finish digging the grave but i don't because, despite my waning years, i'm so far from being fucking done yet there's bound to be a phoenix who will rise and set my heart on fire just to root in the miles of ash.

Waiting around for the next bent knuckle punch.

The last glad step in this mistake.