Inquisition

There's nothing to it. No easy answers. No way around the facts.
It happened. I wanted it to. I let it.
No, not all the way. Never. Not even half.
Not even that.
More or less.
No.
Like sugar soap and oil for blood.
Null. Void. A quiet desperation.
A secret terror. At myself.
My stark incapabilities.
My lesser moments.
Self-loathing and self-destruction dancing.
Firework-bangs in empty streets.
Dark hedges and secret lounge-rooms.
My empty bearded fear.
Yes.
If I was left to it.
I can't help myself. Those parts turn off.
Some parts turn on.
Most just run idle. Half-ass, half-on, half-in.
For you? Of course.
More like a bad accident.
No third-party cover.
Blood on glass and seat-belt burn smells.
More so than ever.
Cloying.
Inebriate condolence.
Drinker's guilt. Pride.
Seething dark resentment.
I am not to be trusted.
In the long run.
Sort of, more idiocy than anything.
NO.
Never again.
Sure, later.
Thank you.