If I still find myself writing about it
Does that mean I have not fully recovered from it?

Even though the bones of moving past whats long gone
No longer swirls above and below
Still in the peak of what has occurred
It lingers with a damp tan spike
Held together with fire hair
And a wind pipe, thrusted together with
This must be it, this must be it.

But there is still apart of me
That even still
Moves past the drunken ******* nights
The mold growing inside my skull
Forgotten drunk whispered statements
As the wind blew up my skirt
Echoing "You're so new. You're so new"
Until like whiplash
That was no longer an excuse.

But I'll shake my head
As it feels like yesterday
A pink apron, baseball cap
Herding my phone
As if every second
My skin grew purple
Condensed  
And as if there was not already
A palpitating strangeness
That questioning of goodness
Faith, where I wonder and examine
The truth every ounce of every glass.

Could turn them all upside down
As they dripped and conceived nothing
And yet my mind would still fabricate more.

Partially because
I awoke to what I knew
Was bathed in grease
But still held on
For fear of
That newness
And placement
Confidence
In that virginity
It comes, it comes
But grappling with new and fleeting
Moments, meaningful words exchanged
And then gone again
I wish as if I could record and collect them all
For those moments where like wheels spinning on ice
I see horrors
I cannot tell
But only show.

With my writings
With my movies
With my aura
That when tapped into
Can radiate a power beyond expertise.