The myth of moderation
is not a myth at all,
it’s a method of recovery
but not a one for all.
AA is a program,
filled with lots of faults
it may help some people
but it’s not a guaranteed stop.
Getting into rehab
works sometimes-it’s true,
but there are some people
this method just won’t get to.
Therapy can be effective,
therapy can be a cure,
but some people just don’t like it,
they feel this method is absurd.
Harm reductions great
truly one of my faves
but even with this method
you may not be saved.
Moderation is a method
just like so many things-
a method to living,
breathing what you seek.
The myth of moderation
is not a myth at all,
just like AA
this method has its faults
some may find recovery
others find more drugs
in the end it’s discovery
of just what side you’re on.
I wake up in the same place each morning. The same bed. The same walls. The same lousy alarm clock that screeches you into the hell of existence like a symphony of tiny demon babies. It’s all the same.
That should be good. Should be. It’s not, clearly. I wake up wrapped in salmon sheets-not pink. Definitely, not pink. The ceiling obscured by the canopy bed and I just stare. Every morning I wake up in the same place, same bed, and stare at the same obscuring canopy-wondering. A lot of things really, though, mostly the same-why is everything so fucking boring.
I used to have the bad habit of waking up in a different place, with a different person or persons, with everything-different. It’s not a healthy way to live. I tell myself this to interrupt the wonder before it turns wanderlust. Then I itch. I itch and itch and finally I scratch. It’s dangerous to wonder while looking up at the same obscuring canopy every morning.
I get up, my feet instantly hitting slippers. Warm, soft-angelically soft white slippers purchased somewhere and when in a place and time that felt cinematic. Every morning it’s the same. A memory of the perfect ending to a mediocre film. Every morning it’s wondering what got me here.
I grab my robe. It too is soft though cool to bare arms. It’s pink like my comforter everything matches now including my nightgown which is pearl-not white. Like my pillow cases.
I leave the bedroom through double doors. The same double doors that greet me everyday with embellishments meant to match the canopies banisters. Passing through them reminds me, everyday, of motel doors. Always different. Always, even when the same.
I walk down the elaborate staircase which curves toward the bottom though it’s carpeted. The carpet is soft though my feet can’t feel it. I know because once, once my bare back laid on it, everyday I remember as I descend the stairs. The scent of coffee hitting my nostrils always at its bend. I laid bare back on the soft staircase carpet under the same man who set that coffee to brew. At the same time at the same place each morning.
I enter the kitchen wondering where that time went. We were in the same place, the same house with the same stairs and yet something has changed.
I take my mug from the cupboard it’s pearl like my nightgown and I take it to the same place I stand every morning.
I pour my coffee and wonder why everything is so fucking boring. As it pours I hear the boom of music in a faded memory. In a motel, one of too many to remember, and my heart aches. Every morning it’s the same ache the music booms and I hear them shout. They are happy, though many are different-new friends everyday he is familiar and she is the same. We’re getting high then in a different motel the faded memories mix, but I’m never alone in them. It’s never the same place though, some are familiar. It’s never the same guy, but sometimes it’s the one I remember. My cup is full the scent fills my nostrils-the same scent every morning.
I walk back up the staircase on the soft carpet. To the same room I just left wondering why my life isn’t different. I wake up each morning in the same place, in the same bed, to the same coffee alone until evening with the same guy. I wonder as I pass through double doors with the scent of coffee turning to cheap beer and cigarettes a faded memory filling my nostrils. The same faded memory each and every morning.
I sit upon the chaise lounge, salmon-not pink. My heart breaks. The same break each and every morning and I wonder why everything is so fucking boring.
I sip my coffee. My hands shake. This morning is different, but exactly the same. I pull out the baggy from my silk robes pocket. It’s white like my slippers and angelically soft.
I itch and every morning as faded memories scratch my heart breaks. I open the baggy wondering why everything is the same when everything was so different. The music booms as I scoop a small mound from the baggy with a well manicured pinky nail. It’s white like my slippers and angelically soft.
I take a deep breathe as faded memories play. I lift the little white mound on manicured pinky nail pearl-not white. The scent of coffee and white powder fill my nostrils.
I wake up in the same place each and every morning.