dull cLEAVERS and Amends

Rifling through the hydrator in the fridge, grabbing a beer, and celebrating sobriety is a monumental occasion. You weren't Kurt when high, you had to search, and ended up in every degrading situation that you used to regale as another townie's prophecy. Destitution mixed with exhilaration, a smattering of self satisfaction coupled with foxhole prayers. You're coming up on a thirty day key tag, and stepping in inches towards what others call normalcy. But a jagged wound remains, sans stitches, plastered with the plastic bandages of a neglected first aid box.
If you've been busted at the seams for what seems a lifetime, the wave crashed and sucked back to sea, the visceral remains around you're ankles against the suck. Nerves tingle, everything's raw like the butchers back room. Ribs cracked agape, bones saws stripping ribs. You're voyage has turned old friends into the detritus,the marrow bones vacuum sealed and sold to the dogs.
Coming to terms with a destructive fuck up, to you, is like courting a fifth grade lover. Can you stand me? Check yes or no. If you can, would you like to hang out. Check yes or no. The trick is being prepared for the no, while expecting the yes with ruddy cheeks and feigned confidence. You've tackled every shit situation in you're whole life alone, and this is another one. Yes, Nancy, you're just saying NO, but the people need their pound of flesh. You wish that they'd take it in neat amounts, but they need it in jagged clumps, excised with a bread knife. You've shit your soul, and kicked with confidence but its not enough. They want you face down, boot to neck, curb to mouth and screaming. You're sorry, but they need blood and part of you thinks they all deserved a quart. Coming to terms with their blood lust you realize you need it all to prove them wrong.