Thirteen Steps

I’m watching my laundry tumble-dry. Jeans fall upon shirts that fall upon socks and so on. It’s hypnotic. Brown hoodie on and I’m slouched. I appear shiftless, I’m sure, but that’s not at all true. My gears are turning, like always. The Fight Club soundtrack ticks in my ears and aren’t I just the hippest motherfucker in here.

Damage-control, remember? That was the plan. It’s what you do when someone kicks you in the heart. Solitude and retrospect. I’ve really half-assed that part, though. Just when I begin to make progress, to understand some of it, I hide myself in distractions. The drink. Women. It’s easier that way. Complicated, but native.

Enough. I’ll direct my attention back to the heartache. Fondle and examine it until I understand. I prefer to be acquainted with something so capable of gutting me like this; to get inside of it. And I will.