The Lesser One

The blank white is a 
mockery
of my inability to 
express.

Two selves split
apart
one self is much
less. 

Perhaps it would be 
best
If that self had
left.

But it remains a harsh
reminder
of things of which I'm
bereft.

Five shots of 
whiskey
and half a bottle of
wine. 

A bruise of 
compulsivity 
A mark of my
decline.

And silence is the
way
of keeping hold of my 
insides.

Want to burn that self to
ash
wash it out with the 
tides.