Rehab Requiem

Wernicki-Korsakoff Syndrome.

Ventricles enlarging.

Confabulation.

Brain atrophy.

Down-regulated souls.

Deliberate cold exposure.

Socks with our sandals,

longish hair, growing beards,

looking all Jesus-like.

From crown to wine we once moved,

Pink Whitney still on our tongues.

We solve ridiculous puzzles

for the sake of neuroplasticity.

Our triggers handed over

like gravy at the Thanksgiving table.

The DSM definitions of disorders

have us wondering if co-occurrence is an irony.

History doesn’t care about us junkies.

It’s 1:15 PM, and he’s still asking us what we want from treatment.

“We don’t’ know. We’re pieces of shit.”

Our thoughts without control.

Our ketamined minds without patrol.

Our bodies and minds want it all.

You wanna coin out?

I’ll be the first to tell you:

Sacrifice isn’t the same as surrender.

Love is the same as acceptance.

Guilt is different from shame,

and perhaps there is a god who suffers with us.

We say we don’t know how to change

yet metamorphosize somewhere under this Indiana sun,

remission painted on blank masks,

relapse on the book covers of the posthumous.

So, come closer and kiss our hungry lips.

For we think we’ve chosen life today.

Love today.

Truth today.

We ask for serenity, but we are serenity.

At least today.

Today.

Today.