These Distasteful Truths

I had always thought it would be quicker, you know?

Like the snapping of a taught rope or a popping balloon.

It turns out this dying business starts early and

this motherfucker is one drawn out and torturous affair.

Like right now, in this very moment,

I am grappling with the overwhelming urge,

this immutable whisper, screaming in my ear

to set alight the last vestiges of this rotten charade

and slide into that comfortable and all too familiar

Bacchanalian death spiral.

But, see?

Just saying it just sounds so pointless and insincere.

I mean, sure, I could tell you that I am wounded or terrified.

I could tell you how hollow and helpless I feel,

but the agony that coats these solemn truths

is a taste far too bitter for my mouth.

Rather, in this small rebellion against fate,

I will pour out honey mead obfuscations

over sugar cube falsehoods to intoxicate you

with the vapors of my absinthe lies.