Chocolate (guess who’s back?)

So I’m sitting at a bar,

thinking about chocolate,

thinking about a scar,

hoping for a clean slate.

I drink straight vodka,

Russian.

Redemption is for the weak-livered.

I’m being watched,

like a canvas,

spread out- scrutinized.

I don’t feel it,

had years of this shit,

just shake it off.

I’m thinking about chocolate. About a tall drink, brownies, and a smoke.

Then he walks up.

Individual parts are vetted.

Walk away boy, you wouldn’t even know what to do with me.

They piss and moan in the background,

something about offside,

then a thing about a tackle.

Free kick! At least three cried.

Half time.

I’m alone at a bar. Drinking.

I could be crazy,

I could be a sociopath,

with daddy issues hunting for a man who drinks whiskey like he did.

You could wake up a eunuch,

drugged and harvested for organs,

sold to a trafficker.

You buy me a drink,

offer me a ride,

hoping I’ll give you a ride,

Then Bam! I’m sacrificing you to Balthazar.

If I were you, I would live in constant fear. Forever vigilante.

Never talk to a woman drinking alone.

I would cultivate my bromance with Christiano Ronaldo,

and leave the girl mumbling about chocolate alone.


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