PHOTO CREDIT// ALEX MINKSY

Take the whiskey bottle. Hold it up to the light. A kaleidoscope of pain kicks me in the face. The light. Heh. What the fuck ever. Ostensibly, that light is called the sun. Warms you. Lifegiver, bringer. To all the little things that run around this earth like co-dependent lovers. Sucking on the tit of every sunray that smacks them in the mouth.

Suck my nipple, sun-bitch
Drink in the majesty of the universe

____________

Not me. Don’t drink in life. Just whiskey. I suck at the tit of the bottom of the bottle. And it says nothing back. Usually knocks me out, doe. Flat onto the ground of wherever the fuck I am. Got a detente between me, myself, the sun, and my sometimes-sanity. Once tried to fly too close to the sun, let an arrow annihilate its heart. Punched me in the jaw, told pithy puny-me to fuck off. Shot each other in the side of the head, smacked around each other’s brains for years. One day the Sun said: don’t look at me then, sun-fuckup. Agreed. Didn’t want to be reminded of my failures so vividly. When I look at the sun all it does it split me into a thousand different colors. Six million parts that assemble me. Shades of sadness. Some kind of red that you can use to draw in your stumbling blocks so everyone can see them.
________

_____________

Learned the hard way that we’re all sun-bitches, because we are the lights of our own worlds. The sun, yeah it shades in some stellar version of successful-you. Shows you what you can be. If you could see yourself as a bunch of nuclear blasts. That blow you forward. Sometimes sideways. Never back. Never to pieces. But not I. Separated from the sun, I’m separated from me.

Locked myself away
And tried to drink myself
To Kingdom Come

___________

__________________

Idolized me. Think we all should. See ourselves as the end all, be all. In the immortal words of Christina Yang,

They are not the sun
You are

Let myself fall from grace. Never had much grace. Can’t not say I careened into chaos. Danced with Discordia in the dark, became Discord.Being. Damaged myself, almost beyond repair. Freezing out there in Deep Space Nine. Darted behind planets of despair come morn, every morn–to mourn the mistakes I made. Didn’t eat out Eros, any love, for six years. Afraid he’d melt me into a masochist. Keep me around until the sun came out. And I’d split into a pantheon of parts, colors that’d soil his sheets with my pain. Couldn’t forgive myself, for letting myself down. Especially since I was the only god in the universe I believed in.

Ain’t no whiskey left to drink. None that can wash away the pain of an atomic sunburn. Burned every time I see even the smallest part of myself. Realize now

we
all
fall
down

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