The Alley

If the road is recovery
Paved by the Big Book
Travelled by many
Working together
For happiness
Joyousness
And freedom…

Then my alley is no shortcut
It’s not sidestep towards “happy”
Not a hop in the direction of “joy”
And nor is it a shimmy towards “freedom”
For I never thought I wanted
Any of those things.

My pursuit was pain
My God was misery
And my religion was the art
Of self-destruction

If I am to dally
And hang back from the crowd
If I am to wander
And pretend to be proud,
It will be because I think I’m doing it wrong.
I’ll retreat back to hell,
I recall the spiral well.

I’ll remember the comfort of sorrow
The caress of isolation
And the kiss of death.

I’ll begin believing the voices in my head
My own sick desire for agony
And being dead.
It’ll start with cutting
I’ll forget to keep praying
I might skip a meal or three
Flush a feast down the toilet
Pop a pill with a beer
Maybe shed a tear
And if left unattended
Then I’m likely to decide
That AA is akin to any other sober high:
A mere vacation
A simple recess
From the tyranny
Of insanity.

Relapse will be that quick!
Boom.
A snap
A flash
In the blink of an eye
I’d be back where I started,
Waiting to die.