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I thought I had a few more years

before getting here:

a desolate place

with no trace of civility

except for the beer on tap

and my humility,

and while I’m trapped

I can’t stop thinking

of how many bottom ridges

I’ve counted

and how many trodden binges

I’ve founded.

Apparently,

I failed to confront a few of me—

Apparitions of my past;

last renditions of their sexuality.

For a moment, let us pray

that I may lay the day

that’s helped me stay this way.

And so I rue

that this and that is true

that I’ve been waiting to tell you

that I’m slowly deteriorating,

and abdicating responsibility

that is too much for me.

And so I rue and ask of you

forgiveness

for my slop,

for my sobs,

for my lack of indication,

for your potential indignation.

I can’t count my mistakes alone.

Please always be around to help me.

David González Valles