Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

But when you’re weak, it’s the Holy Grail
you’re two for one, it’s a fire sale
and that’s a wall that you cannot scale
so you’re forced to burrow under

I wish there were two of me. Though, there are two me. We wear masks, a different one for every setting. And the more I think about it, the less real I feel.

My blood begins to boil as a coworker tells me a story about an elderly woman working to support her dead beat offspring, their equally dead beat wives, and their children. There is violence within me. We’re all capable of it, but most of us live life in passivity. There have been other moments where the monster has crept into my blood. I never act on it. The consequences are a threat enough. But if I could get away with it? We’d never know.

I let my guard down at work, and the monster slipped out. The facade holds so much back. When the husk of the man goes through the motions, it is not ignored.

Today, I imagined myself beating two junkies to the edges of death. While running, I imagined holding down the piece of shit teenage punk, my thumbs pushing into his larynx. And I’ll take in a deep breath, and I’ll release it. I’ll close my eyes and imagine the garden. I’ll see my body wrapped in the ivy until I’m suffocated. And my center will return.

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