The
first time is, you promise yourself, also the last time.
You
are drunk, again, and very much so. For you this is habitual, and was so even before your grief.
The
hour disclosed by the clock you recognise as neither morning nor evening.
You
sleep on the floor. Or on the bed. Wherever you stop moving is where you endure
each lack of consciousness.
You
are on the bed.
In your dream or whatever might be understood
as such, there is the sense of struggle: you writhe and exert whatever requisite
effort you feel needed to extricate yourself.
The
equilibrium of your unconscious, twisted to the point of snapping, snaps. There
is a sudden odour, soft in its foulness.
When
you wake, or come to, you realise there is an oddly damp texture to the back of
your thighs, from which your fingers return thickly tainted.
Recoiling,
you attain immediate sobriety.
There
is the shower, and there is the promise.
This
is the last time.
You
are your own fictional creation.
You,
or I.
