Hole where I used to have a Soul

         My eyes barely crack open, with great effort. Simply being alive had let me produce such a mundane function. Rendering a censured world through slits, crusty openings encased in a derelict painting of swollenness. Dehydration rolls down the pink inert folds of my brain. I sat up to realize I'm in a mess of crooked sheets, the quiet body of a blanket curled up in the far corner, besides broken glass. Chaos had brought its mischief in an unwanted visit, most evidently.

         My mouth slaps together with the taste of cigarettes and a phantom of rum, narrowly calling me to puke. Gathering loose thoughts into consciousness. The clock on the wall told me it was six to eleven, that I'm in a shabby motel room and as usual I was alone.

         I stumbled to the window. I raked the curtains wide, the fabric bunched up in my nerve-wracked fist. I found night spilled all over town. The black of night fighting city lights beneath a heavy fog, a battle lit in gold fire beneath a city being swallowed.

         With my wits just about gathered into consciousness, I abruptly came to the spine-chilling cognizance of a hole where my soul use to dwell! Gradually it came over me. A title wave of my own sewage crashed down upon me. A bleeding hole famished to be filled. Hunger like I could have ever fathomed.

         A need for something real. The thirst of something true felt unquenchable. She was the one, the keeper of my faith in life. Now she's gone.

         I was still there, without a soul. Nursing such a voracious hole. In need of something real, at least true.