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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