These Distasteful Truths
Musings for Shiva and Bacchus
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I had always thought it would be quicker, you know?
Like the snapping of a taught rope or a popping balloon.
It turns out this dying business starts early and
this motherfucker is one drawn out and torturous affair.
Like right now, in this very moment,
I am grappling with the overwhelming urge,
this immutable whisper, screaming in my ear
to set alight the last vestiges of this rotten charade
and slide into that comfortable and all too familiar
Bacchanalian death spiral.
But, see?
Just saying it just sounds so pointless and insincere.
I mean, sure, I could tell you that I am wounded or terrified.
I could tell you how hollow and helpless I feel,
but the agony that coats these solemn truths
is a taste far too bitter for my mouth.
Rather, in this small rebellion against fate,
I will pour out honey mead obfuscations
over sugar cube falsehoods to intoxicate you
with the vapors of my absinthe lies.
About the Creator
Fudsique Gilmore
Rambling rants about my incurable tendencies toward self-destruction, living through the torment of my own making, and the love of "that one girl".
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