So it’s like the morning after the binge, and all that you can really do is puke it all up, hoping with each puke that it’ll be the last, you’ll feel better, the deadly poison gone. But you’ve been drunk often enough, you know it doesn’t stop, not even when you’re all empty. It only diminishes, like a knife blunting with every true strike, until you force yourself to hold something down, damn the pain. And still you’re empty, unsettled, disturbed mentally and physically, wanting to die just as much, if not more than when you drunk yourself into a stupor in the first place, worse because the woozy carefree oblivion is now just a wracking throb, and why, oh why, is it so goddamn pointless?

But you have to throw up, it’s not for you to control, less so than when you took the poison in the first place. (Fight Fate, Rhyme Saves.)

So I’m throwing up, figuratively speaking, having learned the futility of doing it for real, hoping I’ll figure out the same thing soon for this mental variety.

You know life has got you by the balls when all you’re looking for is the exit, some reprieve from the pain of this mental hell. What crushed the life out of you, I wonder, when salvation comes to you in the form of two blue pills?

Oh, the exquisite torture, I don’t have to, yet….

          I am drawn to this aching hell
          moth-to-the flame syndrome?

          Fuck this.