The Wrestle
I thoroughly enjoyed collaborating with fellow poet, Justin Ward, on this brooding piece. We explore the intoxicating nature of self-destruction and wrestling with inner demons. Justin kicked things off and then we took turns writing stanzas (my contributions are in italics). I hope you enjoy our haunting little journey as well. I deeply admire the raw authenticity of Justin’s work and if you haven’t already, give him a follow on Instagram.
Roots, buried deeper than anything, entwine and constrict until the sap of self-destruction begins to ooze from the seams. That sap spreads into the innermost reaches of the soul, coating everything with a shiny glaze that seems harmless at first... Yet over time, tendencies are created. Inclinations that become part of the trunk of this ever-growing tree of the self. Memories, people, moments... All of it becomes embedded in that sap over time, buried beneath gnarly bark and pain. Because that's all the sap is, really. Pain. Pain which manifests as the careful destruction of the self, even as the tree remains desperate to grow.
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The sap drips and laughs. Man, look at him seethe. We’ve mausoleumed him well. A belly full of poison and a head full of hell. Wait, wait…remind him of his failures and how he’ll never amount to shit. Just a fossil, long forgotten in the amber. Buried in a pit. Don’t let the waters reach his roots. Don’t let the sun kiss his leaves. Drip thick over his eyes and watch his hope disappear in the breeze.
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He hears that distant voice... Mocking. Taunting. Reminding him of all he fought to keep, and yet lost anyway. It's a familiar voice. Somehow comforting, despite its scathing words. Because after all, it's a justification for his vices. It gives him freedom, even as it chains. He remains kept from all light and water, and yet convinces himself it's precisely what he wants. He deserves the dark. He deserves to be parched. He deserves a death which refuses to come.
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Yes. Yes. Yes. Let’s put our hands around his throat. Bring him close. Make him play a game. A liver stress test. Edging death. Squeeze him tighter until he’s gasping for breath. His blossom is withering with all of our slithering. Oh look, now he’s crying. Drip, drip, drip…one more glass. Once a tree of life. Now riddled and rotted with endless strife.
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Everything spins and goes black once again, as he succumbs in full. No amount of pain, nor sickness, nor consequence can ever make him stop drinking from that chalice of self-hate. It refills again and again, and he guzzles it, only to find it tasting sweeter each time... Like the embrace of a toxic lover, he will return to it always, as his roots had planted themselves so long ago in tainted soil. They tangled themselves so tightly, and so impossibly deep... he could never hope to right them.
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Hurry, quick…grab the blade. He’s too faded to see we’ve fated him into a grave. His wrist is shiny and begging for a kiss. Two or three inches vertically, surely he won’t miss. His fingers wrap around the hilt as he lifts himself from the floor. His shoulders widen. There’s a fire in his core. The roots beneath him shift, as “time to end the pain” departs from his lips.
The razor, it moves swiftly. A shrilling scream echoes, as from the edge…sap drips. It gathers at his feet in a pool. He takes one more sip and laughs: “I may be wretched, yes. But they mistook me for a fool”.
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