The Honest Prose of a Drunk

I make myself real with every cut.

My pen is a razor blade,

Or anything sharp I can find.

My ink is my own blood,

Carelessly spilled.

My journal is my skin,

Made imperfect by others.

I am correcting that,

Running spell check

Down my veins.

I’m trying to rewrite myself,

But the plot keep healing back wrong.

Ideas are heavy things,

Clinging on to life,

Burning nerve endings

With their newfound will to exist.

I have a bad feeling

Dementia was just an idea

That was never allowed to be born.

It ate its creator's brain

Like a cancer from the inside out.