THIS FEELS LIKE JAZZ.

It has been 2.5 years since I sat here and wrote to you.

I tried.

Many times.

Grieving publicly felt like character building and it was the exposure therapy I didn’t ask for.

Everything just felt too personal to sit down and spill my guts to those who cared enough to click the link in my bio.

And everything I do is personal.

But today - 

with my shoulders rolled back, my jaw unclenched, tongue relaxed, my gel-x tips fly insecurely over my keyboard. Already regretting every word.

2 years ago I quit drinking.

My own 4 walls begged it to end.

Either the Stolis or psychosis, my own walls sighed and rolled their eyes at each break down.

Make it end.

Then my own front door had enough.

Inviting monsters into your home was my gravest mistake - just by the way.

It made me take my walls advice, and ask my front door for forgiveness.

Everyone’s rock bottom looks different from above.

Mine just took like 50 tries.

I spent too much time in small towns thinking about it.

Then I thought about it in San Diego, Vegas, Thailand, then Denver of all places.

It all felt the same.

I want to see how this story ends.

But bad people don’t question if they are good people.

Right?

Powered by a thousand anxious, fiery suns,

and an Instagram humiliation ritual -

The grapevine said you’re a bad guy and I think I believe it.

Cause I believe when grapes speak on vines.

Like pen to paper, finger to trigger, no blood on my hands because I licked my fingers.

And I’m not even hungry.

I just wanted to play with my food.