Weaponized

Weaponized sentimentality sneaking up in the final weeks of the year, alone. It’s the end credit sequence that you want to fast forward but force restraint for a possible hidden final scene and esoteric payout, dividends springing from the bathtub too hot for the skin I was given.
The last thirty minutes are not in reverie, they’re exile and hope of passing through unscathed save the accrual of scrapes and self-inflicted boil-burns from bathwater three times a week. I’ve seen everyone I love and given alms to images of the past that come back when I close my eyes, unholy still.