do my tattoos make me a criminal? a whore? a drug addict?
i'd like to say they don't. i'd like to say i can look this way and behave another. but the truth is i'm just like everybody else. the record proves it. the history calls me out on it, like a drunk sorority sister on a sunday afternoon in the dining hall. the truth comes out if you care to take a look.
do the bruises up my arm make you see an abused girlfriend? or daughter? or can you see right through me; realize i'm just another drunk Gen-Y who can't crawl out of the bottle. nobody grabbed my arm and pushed me down the stairs. i pushed myself. the Hornitos. that's what i blame.
my short-term memory loss could just be genetic. but more likely, the substance abuse is what my father passed down to me, like an antique turquoise ring. except i can't just put this up on a shelf. i have to wear it around every day.
a scarlet letter A. for addict. for abuse. for absolutely no chance of ever living a normal, clean life. every day from here on out will be a struggle toward the mean. regression doesn't equal back to the norm. back to the way everyone else feels most of the time. regression equals down. under. back to the black abyss of late night binges and blackouts and waking up the next afternoon with nothing but the headache and dried vomit in my hair to remind me that i'm still not back to where i need to be.