i’ve been feeling nauseous for a very long time
and yeah, i’ve been on a diet of hate and ***** for a while
but not that type of nauseous
queasy everywhere but my stomach
a calm boat in a tumultuous sea
its like everything is off balance
like someone cut off my hand
and only just told me
its early and my breath still tastes like *****
theres something about the hard edges of the drink that mellow me out
but thats not entirely true
because im awake at four in the morning writing this
but i don’t remember what its about
and i guess poems written at four in the morning when you’re drunk off your *** aren’t supposed to make sense
but i kinda wanted this one to
it was probably going to be some romantic love poem that ended really angrily
but truth is
sometimes your absence hurts more than anything
and when i go reaching for you
i fall on my ***
and when i go to climb into your lap for comfort
all i find is a closed door and an occupied sign
like this is an airplane
and we’ve been airborne for five hours
but im on land
we are both on land
you’ve never even been on a ******* airplane
and these metaphors aren’t going to replace you
they aren't going to ease the ache I feel every time I hear your name
and pretending they will just makes it worse
and pretending makes me turn to this same ******* bottle of *****
and it was full two weeks ago
and now there's barely a mouthful left