August 6, 2022

Pandemonium.

Manipulation dressed as grief.

“You didn’t love me enough—

this is your fault.”

Sharp pain.

I can’t breathe.

Inhale. Exhale. Release.

Ten Jack and Cokes in.

The panic stalls.

A cigarette helps.

Drag. Inhale.

Hold. Forget to exhale.

A girl sits beside me—

stranger, kind,

too drunk to be real,

but still clearer than you.

She says,

“You need a better version of her.”

But I wanted you.

My journal’s open.

I’ve called Mace seven times.

He’s coming.

He’ll say:

“I told you.

Three years.

She’s going to cheat.”

And he was right.

But you couldn’t say it straight.

Just mumbled something about regret

and a date you didn’t want.

No confession.

No real words.

Just:

“I should never have married you.”

“I regret having kids.”

“You ruined the life I wanted.”

And it still stings—

years later,

like it’s still the first time.

The words ring nightly,

through insomniac dreams

where sleep and memory bleed.

Total purity.

Complete clarity.

There’s no release.

Just August 6th.

Sleep won’t take me anywhere

but back.

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Deceit