two ends of the same spectrum.

I never know what to believe, and this distresses me. 

I'm sitting on my patio. Another Saturday night, another Cappone and Rum and Coke. Instead of late night convos with my sister, I've been having these conversations with myself. It's not that she doesn't understand; I just can't summon the strength it takes to accept her bad with her good. And maybe she isn't able to do it for me, either. 

There's a tremor in my hand as I flick the ashes from the cigarillo onto the cement. I was told that you shouldn't inhale cigars, but I've gotten into the habit of doing so. I never understand why I end up smoking and drinking. I hate the taste in my mouth the next morning, and it always makes me nauseous. 

Maybe it's just one of my many self-destructive habits. I have an ambivalence about my life's value. I should just die, I think. No, it would hurt people. Death usually hurts others. I should wish that I would cease to exist. Melt into this patio floor and have everyone's memory of me disappear. 

How can I want that when I'm afraid to disappear? I'm afraid I will have no impact. I'm afraid my death will be the same as ceasing to exist.

I cross my legs and inhale deeply, imaging the black smoke swirling in my lungs. It adds to my rotting insides, to the sludge and tar festering in a pool of negativity. 

I slowly exhale into the night sky. Out of the few things I enjoy, this is at the top of my list. Crisp spring nights, a clear sky, and a spattering of stars across the sky. Peace and solitude.

I pray out of habit because, despite everything, a ball of hope sits in my chest. Maybe that's good enough.