Admissions

When I join myself in prayer all the survivors; all those still able to bear witness regarding my twisted way through the moments and decades come together in the nothing flat all eager to tell their tales once more. The dead speak little; ushering blindfolded angles lead them into my presence yet they are reluctant to testify or blame. The survivors line up ready to spill all the beans or elaborate upon some minor escape from a near miss, or a cliff edge pull-back when I gabbed myself away, not from the fall but from the hard ground. I listen nodding like a priest in a confessional box absolving some, scorning others, dismissing many. After this séance with myself, I take an Ambien and sleep dreaming of a life that once had meaning.