a whiskey-bottled throne — kari.

I thought that love was in the drugs
But the more I took, the more it took away
And I could never get enough

as the private sessions draw to a thick close, i grow antsier, fidgeting whatever these hands could find – a sort of distractive mechanism hacked to distract me from my own somber thoughts.

how could an angel in exile could appeal to the highers, the game-makers, without showing its shorn, emaciated wings or holy-fire. i don’t want them to know my true nature and have that delicate knowledge be used as my ultimate hamartia.

the bright lights numbs the mind and so does the shelves and shelves of  bottles, its glassed cadavers a shiny throne in the corner of my chambers.

my path to alcoholism is a winding road. i am already ambling along its desolate tracks, near median, half-way there to the dotted finish line. if eyes were to scrunch tight, you could trace the hazy structure of Ripred’s gate, a welcoming point to the nether realms.

long story cut short: my days are numbered, and there is a concerning abundance of tally marks upon my walls of existence.

time’s leaking like an old faucet would—

and i don’t know what to do with the remaining, surplus lot of time that’s pooled generously in my palms. the easiest resolution at the moment is to get intoxicated, and it’s darkly ironic, how that is also the most self-destructive of all.

i cast myself here, not wanting to be controlled or threaded, but being in control of oneself isn’t my forte either. they’d already scolded me, twice, for retching after several, consecutive rounds. the effervescent buzz hasn’t faded from its home beneath my skin.

“that target just won’t stop hopping.” complaints ring aloud. “i am going to stop wasting my time here.” the bows and arrows, albeit its simplicity, are the most grueling to master. it’s a perfect, timed combination of focus and movement – letting go of both the feather and tension in faultless synchronization. “let me go make myself useful elsewhere.” feet turn away after i had set the bow down, meandering aimlessly.

night creeps in; there’s no one occupying the stations, with the exception of a brown-wreathed girl. she’s got a firestorm raging behind her optics, the night’s recycled oxygen fuels her inferno.

i enter her territory of the building, with a nonchalance to my movements that most find ill-mannered. bones give rest to themselves, leaning against a pillar, robust steel against a soft backbone – it feels like a wooden truck for a second, if you ignore the metallic coolness. i feel at home, suddenly animated.

“working hard? it’s not going to make much of a difference, you know.” a gaze washes over her. “that’s why i threw up on that spot you’re currently standing on. training drunk – it was quite the experience.”

I thought that love was on the stage
You give yourself to strangers
You don't have to be afraid

song: florence — hunger