Thought:

I think, I thought, I should just stop.
My thoughts prefer to be evil.
Creeping in the deep and dark,
searching for the leading spot.
They try to consume.
But thoughts are like bugs.
The evil ones are spiders.

I step on spiders with my bare feet.

But some spiders are too big for my feet.
I'm relatively small.
My shoe size is 6.
Some spiders are
as big as mediums sized dogs.
You can bet your ass
I won't
step on
those
bastards.

A true survivor understands when to flee.

So I flee.
Music, Writing, Reading, Alcohol.
These are the ways I flee.
I work out too. Sweating feels good.
I prefer alcohol, especially beer.
It's the easiest way to escape.
It turns the nebula into a buoyant structure,
Floating to the happy and free.
My wants and needs are easier.
An alcoholic is a man on the
constant
search
for clarity.
I wish I allowed myself the luxury more.

I wish my thoughts were always light.

Heavy thoughts lead to heavy mistakes.
Those are scary.
I hide fear with a smile.
God blessed me with a good one.
Then again, was it God?
If so, why me?

Is it cause I'm always imagining my demise?

Ten years old.
Drive to school.
'There are seven ways I can imagine myself dying before I walk through that front door.'
School was a five-minute drive from home.
I never shared my thoughts,
Only gripped my thighs covered by the pleated uniform skirt.

I still imagine my demise. I'm always smashed.