Revisiting a scar

The level of stupid I must be has to be detailed in some of those books that claim to help others, or at least in one of those that teach them white-coats how to help others. Maybe I should be put in a white coat... one of those with really long sleaves and several belt buckles. And something tells me it won't be the last time, because I'm just that stupid...

Maybe I shouldn't be so explicit, but that would be to deny life its own existence, because life is explicit, limitless, raw and uncensored. So it is only fair to pay it forward with the same coin. But life is also not fair, it has never been, so what was the expectation if not just the road to dissapointment..? The blame falls in my hands for putting myself out there, again.

Being tired of not caring led to trying to care for something that was literally careless. Showing up for something that left a long time ago and didn't even care to say goodbye. The irony is strong with this one, for it was totally called for, asking for a spark while underwater. I should have just drowned. Now left in this familiar place where things are broken still, barely walking on sharp shards of glass that once held magic.

What could be expected to happen now that everything is lost? But wait... this is not the first time. I'm just revisiting a scar that never healed. How could it if I never allowed it to? The moments, uncanny, that brought me to this place, they are not responsible, I am... for letting them. Now everything is dangerous and for once anew, as it has always been. So experience should show the way out, because of course there's a way out, just like there were many times before.

There's no waiting for an apology, that's just lunacy, repeating the same bullshit, expecting different results. Yeah, I'm just that stupid. Stupid for wanting to be loved by a cancer mass in my path. Asking for a hand to hold from a crippled individual. The residual darkness should be warm enough for protecting the broken one. Or so I want to believe. Squished like a roach under a sandal or a roach in the ashtray. Just let the ashes drown my sorrow, after all I'm too old to self-destruct the old ways. Alcohol is too good for me now. 

No embrace left for these rotting hands. Let them write these words as if it was an obituary. The regular culprit, the same criminal that always commits but never pays. It was never enough, it will never be. The parasite feeds on the spilled blood and the wound refuses to heal. A match made in hell, my own personal hell. Now is time to find the larger scraps left from the wreckage and use those to rebuild, at least a little shed to protect me from the rain, the stormy rain that seems to never stop.

I don't know if waiting for sunrise is also stupid, but as I wait, I build...