empty bottles

The sad and caustic truth is
no one else will ever know
what it's been like
being you:
thirty-six years old
been working more than thirty
broken by all those close to me
hated by my own body
weighed twenty pounds at age two-and-a-half.
molested, maligned
got the shit kicked out of me
so many times

I can still see myself
in the darkness
piss in my pants
ketchup on my shirt
riding in a stranger's car
only worried about my mother

I've run so many races
fucked up so many
puked my guts out at the end
(or somewhere along the way)
no one could dissuade me from trying
(not even you, Mick Patch)
and no one steered me away
(of course)
from failing

I wanted something pure
something that didn't reek of my miserable failure
(cue the girl from Colorado)
dear faithful reader
I pity you
the backstory is there in bits and pieces
as much as I'm comfortable with
dear reader
I pity you
you are the innocent bystander
watching this broken, bleeding
hacking, wreck of a man
near the finish line in appropriate fashion:
stumbling and puking
and gasping for air.