Dear Sister

Dear sister,

I can't help you.

The whole world believes the lie of an insufficient position.

I can't help you, but I'll tell you what they won't:

There is no insufficient position.

The world will clamor to tell you how low you've come for your lowness infers how high they've remained.

We'll clamor to tell you you're wrong because we adore the lie that we're right.

We'll pretend to be compassionate by offering help yet our offer is merely the accusation of your insufficiency and the confession of our belief in a baseless lie.

Drink till you throw up.

Abandon your family.

Lose your job.

There is no insufficient position.

Sister, I can't help you.

You don't need help.

You are not in an insufficient position.

The false promise of the lie of an insufficient position is the arrival to a sufficient one.

The curse of your alcoholism is the blessing of this perception.

For the false promise of drink is clearly revealed: feeling better inevitably ends in the hangover of feeling worse.

Sister, we never win this game.

The promiseland of a sufficient position is not a hospitable home.

I can't help you.

And you can't help yourself.

For there is no insufficient position.