Chateau Margaux 1787

Glasses, no salt, rimmed with emotion, numbly delivering, repetitive, question, smile, nod, wet cash

Has this room always been so muffled, tell me, the people with so little appeal, is that her

Of course it isn't, but even the movement in the silverware taunts me

I find favor in their acknowledgments, though sullen, the ticking is warped, which reality have I slipped into 

Beneath a layer of delusion, biting at my shoulder, if only I could reach through and pull myself up 

Falling, backwards, over a spectacular break down, turned up, right sided, with my heart in my feet, and head drifting dangerously forward 

Last night, before violently thrust into waking life, you were angry at me, I stood by the cherry wood

What was I doing so close to you, you moved by quickly, spilling Chateau Margaux 1787 on your shirt, it was my fault 

Teeth ground down to raw gum, I am cemented to the corner of this place, as I watch my body move from one space to the next 

Self discipline, or passive torture, amazing what I had forgotten underneath, in my perturbation, what a beautiful face 

I began to cry, in the morning, a rare occurrence, forced upon me, was memory exploitation, and a nervousness

Nothing new, so upsettingly familiar, with self stricken guilt, that churned my stomach like the seaside 

Do you like saltwater taffy? What a stupid question, perhaps I should be deeper, what is your biggest fear 

Did you know I am left handed, perhaps my greatest achievement, only joking, I am sick of it all, I'll trade out my hands 

You would tell me to keep them, my hands, and my head, screwed on exactly how they were

Though I'll have you know, sometimes the hatred grows through fingertips and brain, a disastrous partnership 

I bought something new today, only for myself in the bedroom, little roses, though far too sexy

Seemed to be something you hadn't seen, I could keep to myself finally, the ache has settled comfortably in my sternum

My body is still moving, and I am having an atrocious time figuring out, if I was in love, or distracted from the things I despised 

Distraction often masks itself as romance I find, when you are addicted to avoidance, and drawn to surface level comfort 

But I think it was just love

It is cold here today, colder than it has been, I am frantic, wondering if you will ever see my efforts, work seems to be an egregious abuse 

I never was fueled by money, the least important thing in my life, how romantic to live underneath the sun, ridden with disease, dying 

While cleaning, I came across four papers, in an envelope, marked recently, as of four years ago 

Love notes, from a friend now, and drawings, from someone who lacked a passion for art, but did their best at developing one to please me 

I smiled, genuine, no repetition, tossed them, into my suitcase, perhaps the only man who had cared thoroughly for every sickness seeping into my organs 

There is no doubt in my mind that I am fading, I have tried every day to experience purity, regarding emotion and honesty when it came to personal story telling 

But I kept death sacred, and though they new the beginnings, I kept the tumors, and the pain, and the 86 pounds, buried beneath the cot and pillows and decaying confidence, as they were in the process of returning

I laughed today, elbows on the counter, rubbing an anxious brow, sarcasm filled my bones, I opened the Corlanor

Counted the pulse, and slipped on a jacket, and that thing covered in little roses 

I hope tonight Chateau Margaux 1787 has moved on to someone else's unsettled mind, and I dream of my online opponent, drinking a Bud Light.