I have this little voice in my head
that is telling me to stop. “Look over
here,” it implores. But no matter how
hard I try, I will not obey. I always
have the urge to pick up my chalice
instead. I press it to my lips, swig
deeply, swallow hard, then repeat. In my
mind, there is no tomorrow, only hollow,
breathless moments that comprise the
present, which soon will fade to gray,
then black, and then to reckless and
foolhardy oblivion. Grace be to the cup,
to the blood money, to the underhanded
pleasure, that I behave in such a way.

“Pardon, but did I not just bid you to leave?”
I ask in a faint whisper. “For is my
thought process not frail enough
without your interference?” Alas that
the voice will not avail; alas be not
to it, but to me. To myself I can
never offer freedom, neither within
nor without, but indulgence creeps
through the crack under my door. And
I invite it to stay, to come and
play, at least for a little while.

Fear.

Only a few days more, and I may
just last the year.