Got home late with a story I'd already told twice. Said I was getting better. Nobody asked. I could make a bad week sound reasonable, make a bad year disappear. I was good with words back then. That was half the problem there. No argument left. No clever defence. The lie got tired And stopped making sense. Nothing opened up. No light came through. I just ran out of ways to do the things I'd do. The last one was always ceremonial. So naturally, I went hard. If this was really the last one, I might as well make it count. Twenty-seven missed phone calls lighting up the screen. My wife and kids were looking. No idea where I had been. I knew exactly how I got there. I could no longer ignore. Knowing never stopped a thing. I'd proved that much, for sure. No argument left. No clever defence. The lie got tired And stopped making sense. Nothing opened up. No light came through. I just ran out of ways to make the same old lie sound true. They said there was a solution. Thought I knew what that meant. Twelve steps for me to complete, so I kept coming back. Turns out I had it inside out. Still couldn't tell you what it meant. No argument left. Nothing left to prove. Nothing opened up. No light came shining through. Just the same old mornings. Sometimes they are fine. Sometimes they're bloody awful. I don't take it as a sign.
