text: I have never been so thirsty for poison. A dribbled stream over my lips would mend my frayed nerves and soothe my aching spine. I would take to the aspect of water torture over my current situation, dripping fluids upon my forehead for even the chance of a stray splatter to make its way to my tongue. The folds in my brain are covered in thorns and are rubbing against each other. I can feel my blood thickening. What I have done to myself is nothing short of martyrdom, I am paying for the sins of my past transgressions and have never been more at peace. I told myself, that if one more bottle were to make it to my lips, I would do it. If one more person had to be victim to my affliction, I would do it. If one more second passed where I was lost to the syrup, I would do it. What I had promised myself has finally been done. I failed my own oath and this is the price. I have pounded steel spikes into the wall and floor of the living room. Four spikes in total, two in the floor and two on the wall, spaced perfectly to the dimensions of my limbs. They held strong in their positions for a few months, a constant reminder that if I were to tip the scale of sobriety I would have to impale myself. Daily, I would feel the pin points with my finger tips to assure that there was no doubt that they would pierce my sinful flesh with ease. I slowly stepped both feet on the floor spikes and with little effort and the assistance of my own weight, the soles of my feet gave easily to my own devices of abstinence. I did not scream, but the pain was nauseating. My mouth tasted like salt and motor oil, the sensation of my survival instincts screaming at me to stop, that I would be better in the future, if only I would give myself some leniency. It was that same screaming that told me it was alright to make mistakes over and over, there will be next week to be better. Next week had been coming for four years. Four years of swallowing cheap swill and bile, choking back the excuses I gave myself. The adrenaline from my archaic acts of penance made me blood drunk for my own sadism as I lunged forward to place my hands even with the surface behind the spikes on the wall. As the steel slid through my palms, my fingers spidered out to brace for their final resting point. Here I stood, crucified to my wall for the actions I took. I called my own bluff and now I am pinned to the very foundation that hid my grievous acts from the world. The red jelly melted from the holes in my hands and hugged the wall as well as my arms. The small shifts and settings of the house made its old timber ribs groan as it breathed with the rhythm of earth. I had never given it much thought, but the spikes transferred this rhythm through my tendons and muscles. I could feel the heartbeat of the brick and plaster walls that lined my final resting place. Let me be a reminder to the world that there is no action without a consequence. The lies we tell each other and the masks we sculpt for our own sensibilities are only paper thin. A single pin prick is all it takes to make everything fall. For the first time in years, I can finally say that my mind is not clouded. With my self inflicted stigmata, I am an icon to those who will see me that there is no other way to truly indulge the flesh with temptation than to go head first. Within my final hours on this earthly plane, I imagine the aftermath. I have reconciled with my soul, and there is nothing left to be sorry for. My name is Jenny, and I’m an alcoholic.