Forgetting To Know Myself (mark my end in red)

I've lost so many
memories and nights to the bottle
that I'm beginning to feel
just as empty and useless
as the last one
I broke down on the floor.

I can't remember my waking
hours spent walking
wasted,
testing my limits
to the point where I can't help
but poison myself,
questioning my luck and my faith;
why am I so protected,
why do the Saints save me
from the consequences
of my actions,
or do they merely consider
my shame sufficient enough?

My friends have seen me
at my worst and lowest,
yet I seem to find ways
to sink deeper,
down in the grave
I've been digging
for the love I have
left
since I lost her;
pills and a pen
were never meant
to cause so much
addiction and confusion.

If I can't find
a way to cut this infection
out of my chest,
then maybe you'll read
about my life in the newspaper;
place a paper weight on my obituary,
mark my end in red.