Natality

XV.

Waking to pain that comes familiar,

an old friend. The oppressive light of day

scorches all it touches, exposing sins

of nights forgotten. My mouth tastes

like cheap whiskey and Marlboroughs,

my body aches with regret. The shirt I wear is torn

and bloody, the scars on my belly, jagged

and raw. More blood in my hair, maybe

I fell? This is this first time, but certainly not the

last. At least

I made it home.  

XVII.

Bright lights and the smell of gauze,

this is not my home. The hospital bed

is damp and uncomfortable, my clothes

are gone, cut off my body when they pulled

me out of the river. I don’t remember getting

in, I don’t remember anything. The doctor

tells me I’m lucky to be alive; a part of me

knows he’s wrong. I hope my friends

aren’t mad

at me.

XIX.

The frigid linoleum of my kitchen floor. The taste

of vodka and blood on my tongue. It’s happened

again, and I’m alone. The apartment is trashed,

my worldly nothings thrown askew

like so much debris. The mirror tells a tale

from the bruises on my neck, my wrists,

my face. Who was here, the friend

of a friend? My phone has one message,

it’s from her. I’m so sorry.

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