I was buying coffee in the morning, by myself as ******* usual, when I realized what we had got into the night before. In a haze I’d woken up with blood on the pillow from my disgusting cracked dry split aching slurring ******* singing ****-teasing foot in between my teeth spitting pulling bleeding stinging lips, and you were gone again. All cause these days I drink more whiskey than water. Because I saw it in a movie with a cute little proper British girl in a tiny dress order it. Whiskey gin-jah, she said to the fictional bartender. But I haven’t drank ginger ale since I was a sick complaining little eleven year old goblin who thought that *** was for people in love and that they just lay there naked and married each other or the movie ended or something. Now I’m only left with half the equation. Whiskey. Sometimes when I’m really bored with my girlfriends I tell them I want to get drunk and smash glass bottles in the street. They smile with their lipstick teeth and talk about their college degrees. Usually I just **** myself. So I wake up with cracked lips and a hangover and I walk to get coffee or water or new shoes or something, and then I stop and I remember what weird things we said to each other last night. After we didn’t make love, we ******. After we ****** and we didn’t get married and the movie didn’t end or whatever, after that. It was really cold so we stayed in bed and you held your cell phone open waiting for your ex girlfriend to call and say oh I need you I need your **** oh please come back. She won’t ever call, I hope you realize. She won’t call like my ex won’t look me in the eye, like he will tug and grab and whisper in whatever ****’s ear at the bar when he sees me. He won’t call and I’ll ******* run like hell if he tries to say hello so I don’t slip and fall on the way his voice sounds. On the feelings of his breath on my shoulders in the morning and the way he says tomato or how he always said, oh you’re so wet right now after he just came in me and he wanted to have *** again. No, what? You just came inside me you ******* idiot. God I hated that. But I miss the smell of his tee shirts and his box cutter toenails scratching my legs while I fell asleep. And maybe how he said to me, everything happens for a reason. But I don’t know. So I’m laying there and you’re laying there and you’re unpeeling my stupid ugly naked skeleton body with your eyes in the dim light of your cell phone that has no messages. And you said to me, I remember it now, that you wanted to play my ribs like a piano. You pressed pressed pressed until I thought I would have bruises. Like I was your property. You *******. You wondered aloud in your dumb voice with your dumb thoughts how hard you would have to press for them to break. And now with my coffee half spilt on the sweater covering my bent up/almost broke up ribs, that coffee that will never make it to my horrible gross decomposing bleeding lips, I imagine if you had actually done it. I imagine the sound of the late night phone call to 911. When you would have to dial my mother and cry into the phone, I did it I did it. I finally broke her. And she would ask, who the **** is this? And say, don’t call here anymore. And roll over and go back to sleep. You could have watched the sunrise on the roof of my apartment with my ex and passed the half-empty whiskey bottle back and forth talking about my crooked teeth. Two boys and their broken doll. That’s the kind of ****** up weird **** we got into last night. And the man behind the counter wants to know if I need change.