Sixth Time's a Charm.

I'm pretty sure this week makes six.


Convincing myself that this will be the last time, I ravenously indulge.
And whatthehell. If I'm gonna give it up for good, I might as well make tonight tomorrow's glorious memory.


The irony of it all is that that's why I keep coming back:
I make sure my "Last Time" 's are so fulfilling, so ... dangerously sweet, that before I know it, I'm planning for the next one.


And could you really blame me?
The shame, the impulse, the curiousity... they thrust their thick and throbbing fingers (clench-release-clench-release) around my puny little achy heart and I c a v e...
Giving in is the only way to make the clenching stop, it seems.
I don't stand a chance from the beginning.


And oh the tense-akwardness that chokes the air once it's over.
... just as the script for this routine instructs, I widen the front door to greet my worthless Conscience, laying there helpless, cheeks stained with ashy tear-trails.
And, as I've done so many times before, I scoop brown arms around her skinny frame, craddle her close to my dewy breasts, and carry her towards the sink to rinse off ... she lets me watch her scrub-scrub-rinse-scrub-scrub routine, until she 's convinced she's clean again.
My eyes too heavy and week to meet hers, I promise "never to do it again" and reassure her, for the sixth time, that this was "definitely definitely the last time."


The last few drops of water rinse away the mud between her toes as she feigns a smile & nods okay...


And we both know she'll be greeted on the doormat again .
Same time next week.