Dear sober Malcolm you are drunk and suddenly submerged neck deep in emotion…polish this up and post it on Wednesday.
-drunk me or you? Idk. Drunk us.
Night after night I fill my life with burning alcohol and women who don’t have the slightest chance of being my wife.
Shrouded in darkness and only the Warmth of drunkeness acts as my light.
But when the sun comes to life, nothing can hide. I feel everything I’m running from. The light touches me like when Mufasa showed Simba his pride.
You see, the pain only gets to me when I stop moving and grooving. It’s so easy to focus on the moment when you’re acting as if life is a movie. Writing for major websites, listening to fly ass music. Drowning my sorrows in Dom Kennedy songs to help heal the bruises.
Flying all over the world posing all fluid. Buying more gold than I know what to do with.
But at some point I have to stop.
Take off my mask.
And whether I’m in the shower that we used to share and I come across a strand of that kinky ass hair…
Or laying on the pillow that you left, it’s clear as air that your imprint is everywhere.
But I’m supposed to stay away.
Out of sight and out of mind is what they say, so I’m supposed to stay away.
Your spirit in my home every day, but I have to stay away.
I sleep in your spot and have memories of the way you lay, but I have to stay away.
A timeline full of your new life in my face, but I have to stay away.
I can feel you.
When I close my eyes and reach out I can feel you like you’re in front of me. I feel you when you toss and turn in your sleep. I feel you when you reach out or scoot over to be held, even though it’s not me, cause when I cover my irises, these are the things that I see.
I deal with crippling, writhing emotional pain, and in the day, I’m able to combat it, but the nighttime always puts me in disarray. I live and deal in the environment that you helped create, and Even thought I pushed you, it kills me to know you let go and ran away.
There is a fire in the pit of my gut as I watch you be everything that I saw inside of you, without me. Was the metamorphosis just meant to be? Was the problem me?
Or is it once again, Malcolm’s big ole ego destroying he?
At least I recognize the monster inside of me.
The pain that I have is not the type that jolts you awake, but the kind that keeps you from sleeping. It’s warm and throbbing, tingling like a fractured finger, more troublesome than excruciating, but much more frequent.
Time heals all wounds is the quote of the day. But time never forgets that love as sharp and clean as diamonds. I’d remember you even with Alzheimer’s.
Look at me. Hypermasculine, egotistical asshole writing his feelings worrying about if I sound like I’m whinin’.
“Malcolm you fucking care too much what others think!” You always said that was my problem.
So what is a man to do?
Except know that when someone you love makes a choice, you live with the consequences of that decision