Pleas of Futility

Sobriety

October 16, 2023 12:26am - 12:47am

I'm six days sober.

It may not seem like much to you, but to me its everything.

Its been six days since I drunk dialled and told you that I loved you. Six days from when you told me to never call. Six days since I reminisced on all that we had; all that we lost. Six days since I moved on.

But you don't move on. Not from these types of things. Not when you pour everything you have into it. Even bottomless drinks in a bar at 5am can't numb that pain.

But I am six days sober.

Though, it's been two days since I drafted a thirty-fourth email to you. It's been twelve hours since I dug through your box of things you left in my house. Its been thirty-eight minutes since I tore my house apart, looking for your sweatshirt I thought that I lost. It hasn't even been seconds since all I could think about was you.

But at least I'm sober.

And its been six days since I showed up at our—sorry, your—apartment. Six days since I stalked her Instagram; since I last stalked yours. It's been six days since I swore off calling. And texting. And emailing.

It's been six days since purgatory began. Since being trapped in this hell.

I'm only six days sober. But, fuck, at least I'm sober.