The bitterness of grape skins and oaken barrels

Where does a person begin once the tornado they've created finally hurls them to the ground in blustered and bludgeoning disinterest?

Should they start by assessing the damage to their surroundings or the damage to themself?

While it would seem the natural response to take stock of one's corporal being, the fact is that when one breaks their own bones they tend to feel reticent to splint the jagged throbbing for fear of worsening the injury.

And yet if that same person was to try and observe the trail of destruction left in the wake of her or his own selfish broodings, an increasing sense of self-loathing would doubtless circumvent any notions of repair.

The whole situation would become little more than a self-perpetuating mess of more and more razor cuts on naked thighs and quivering arms.

And here I stand, battered, broken and full of absolutely nothing.
To think it was me who created this chaos as some form of crude medication.

I think I've overdosed and now withdrawals aren't an option.
I'm simply left to curl up in a corner and wait for the demons to carry me off to somewhere bad enough to make me feel something once again.