This hangover has got me reminiscing about the days we spent together, inseparable and enamoured.
Our last fuck was to Doja Cat’s Streets. We didn’t even say a proper goodbye that night. I admit that it still cuts deep. Fuck, I’ll say it, I hope you’re happy. Knocking back drinks with the girls, acting like we weren’t everything to one other. Let it burn then. As time drags on I realise connections are nought but mirages anyway. Beneath that twilit train underpass I last looked you in the eyes, I saw a hundred futures for us disappear.
A few months ago it was a bottle of bourbon and I’d be texting my exes, but the times have changed; now it’s a bottle of bourbon and a night of reflection, white lines to battle the blues.
I wonder does he look at you the way I never did? Is his love, selfless and compassionate? Unlike mine. Does he hold your hand and not a glass of scotch like I used to? Does he make you feel like it’s all worked out for you in the end? You said I was toxicity incarnate and I won’t disagree with you, some part of me even believes it. I suppose that’s the cruel irony of trust with all its arrogance; it never quite allows you to understand the impermanence of the situation until it’s far too late.
I think about throwing this all away and giving up. I’m sick of this life and knowing I had opportunities which I tore apart. How do you start fresh when your mind’s your biggest problem?
It’s a new era or so I’ve heard, I’m not sure how to feel about it. New city and new possibilities. But how am I meant to keep it together? I asked my last link. she used to say too much but when it comes to that she didn’t say a lot. I think she knows I’ll blow it. I know she’s right.
If I’d done it right maybe I’d be living with the girl I fought for. Living the kind of life you and your partner dream of but instead I’m just smoking cigarettes under the stark condemnation of midnight skies, awaiting my maudlin end.
Hell’s an irish bar, if you’ll believe me.
Four overdoses so far and that’s where I always end up, after consciousness fades and the arbiter’s play checkers with my life. To live or die? I wish I had my say in the matter. The bartender’s pouring me a whisky, their crimson three piece suit contrasts with the dimly lit decor, their milky white eyes pierce anything that dares look at them. I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve met them before. Everyone’s there; family, friends and exes, they’re telling me the worst truths and the most unfathomable realities. Expressing all their pernicious loathing for me. It’s my four times in that Irish bar, unconscious and on the precipice of death. That I realise the consequences of my actions and my lifestyle. All the awful, dreadful things I did. The blackout drunk nights, the brutal arguments, the nights I was never there for you, or anyone else for that matter. I know the people around me aren’t even dead and I’m sat there, with the whisky poured, knowing I’ll spend the rest of eternity there and I’ll be alone. I’ve heard it called a hell loop, but ultimately who knows until my time truly comes. I’d say I’m scared but I’ve spent so long alone with my head, that I’m not truly sure if I am.
I remember this tragedy well, it’s still fresh in some ways; I was in love with her and she was cheating on her boyfriend with me, it was impure love. I wanted you and you wanted me. I had my flings and you had him, but you always strayed when the hours got dark and dissatisfaction hit. From that alone I should have known never to trust you but love clouds judgement.
In truth though let’s not judge because we’ve all done it and if you haven’t then just ask your partner when that relationship comes to it’s messy and sudden end.
How did we plan a future and yet it still ended like it did, after everything we’d done, after everything we’d said? I’ve been drinking to our memory for so long that I’m beginning to forget what you even looked like.
This life is harsh and it isn’t for everyone. It’ll take your soul, crush every dream and romance you ever had. The intimacy of a lover far exceeds the disconnect of a new person in your bed every week. Just know I learnt but we’re all damaged by feelings to the point of ignorance.
I wish I could be the person they expected me to be, The person you wanted me to be. The worst thing is you needed someone to hate to become a better person and if hating me means you’ll get a beautiful life then I swear I’ll be the person you hate. Perhaps when all is said and done, as I stand underneath the funeral pyre of a love long since cold I almost feel compelled to apologise for the ceaseless drinking and drugs, the debauchery, the selfishness, you know the grim details- I doubt they’re easy to forget. You should have been my priority, you should have been what mattered, but I lost my way. I can’t forgive myself for that. For all my faults and mistakes I always loved you. Now you let the past die, drown it in the sink, watch it scream and flail. Watch the light leave it’s eyes. Nothing gets out alive, we’re no exception.
Does this honesty hurt? Because if it does I’ve little to apologise for, like me you either love it or hate it, but after a bottle of bourbon it’s all the same. I got tired of existing in a world focused on maintaining a faux sense of macabre perfection, it was time to pull back the curtain and reveal the fucking rot and my god what a beautiful sight it is.
Now as the night slips into haziness I admit my most stark losses will always be a part of me. They’ll be the spectres that lurk at the bottom of bottles of scotch, behind me in the mirror and as the shadows in particularly dark rooms. Therefore perhaps it’s true and I don’t sleep because you’re in my dreams, it’s the last connection to you I’ve got and it haunts me constantly.
Ben Brizell 